The Prince No One Wanted
by Agatho
Summary: Robert's Rebellion ended in an uneven victory for the Iron Throne, and in the years since an uneasy peace has reigned. Now, as septons and lords clash in the Vale, King Rhaegar rides north to treat with his most unruly vassal. Having discovered his son's survival, the king reveals that the Bastard of Winterfell is anything but, and offers him a role in the Song of Ice and Fire.
1. I The Bastard of Winterfell

Hey all! So this is something I've been working on over at and it was suggested I post it here. The story will be much the same as it is there, though I will fix any typos I find before I cross-post. There are twenty or so chapters that have already been written that I'll be posting sporadically throughout the week. I hope you all enjoy it and feel free to leave a review!

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 **The Bastard of Winterfell**

Jon Snow was forced to hang back and watch as his father returned with the King. Lady Catelyn did not want him to be seen with Lord Stark's trueborn children. Relations between the North and King's Landing were strained as it was, she had said, and it would do no good to insult the King by presenting him with a bastard. So Jon stood on one of the balconies overlooking Winterfell's main courtyard along with the men at arms and the servants and the scullery maids as the gates of the ancient castle creaked open and Lord Stark entered alongside his liege lord and the royal retinue.

Not that his father was without retainers. When Lord Eddard had heard that the king was coming to Winterfell he rode out to meet him at Moat Cailin with half the strength of the North. The sigils and arms of Umbers and Manderlys and Dustins and Ryswells could all be seen pouring through the gate along with those of the King and his wife. The wolf had brought his pack, every last one of them baring their teeth. It sent a clear message. Jon's father would allow the King's presence in his keep, in his demesne, and in his _kingdom_ , for lack of a better word, for although Jon could not remember a time when things were different he had been told by Maester Luwin that the North had almost become a realm unto itself after the Rebellion, but he would never be welcome in any of them.

In a way, Jon was glad that he wouldn't have to deal with any of this for much longer. He had spoken to his uncle Benjen about joining the Night's Watch, and he had been told that blood and the circumstances of one's birth mattered little at the Wall. His uncle had told him that bastards and the sons of smallfolk had risen to be First Steward, First Ranger, and even Lord Commander if they proved themselves worthy. It would be cold and lonely there, Benjen had warned him, but Jon was a Stark by blood if not by name, and harsh winters were something he was more than ready for. And as for loneliness, Jon doubted his uncle could truly appreciate the isolation of being a bastard in the halls of one's own father, hated by the Lady of the Castle and shunned even by some of the servants. Whatever kindness he might have received, Jon knew he did not belong. He was ready to go.

Well, almost ready. The only reason he waited here, the only reason he had not packed, said his goodbyes, and rode north as his father rode south was because Lord Eddard had finally relented. Something about his calling the banners and marching to Moat Cailin had caused the icy front he put up whenever the subject of Jon's mother was discussed to thaw. He had promised to tell Jon everything about his mother when he returned, but something his father had said Jon had found very confusing. _Gods be good, we'll be able to discuss it alone._

Turning his attention back to the courtyard he could see his father dismount and take his place beside his wife and trueborn children. Lord Eddard noticed Jon's absence and looked around for him. When their eyes met, it pained Jon to realize that the look in his father's eyes was one of relief. _He really doesn't want me beside him_ , thought Jon. He almost wanted to leave, but curiosity held him there. He had never seen a king before, and unless his wildest fantasies about slaying a King-beyond-the-Wall came true he doubted he would have the chance to do so again.

The first of the King's retinue to dismount was no doubt Ser Barristan Selmy, the knight of the Kingsguard who had been chosen to accompany the royal family on their long trek north. He was aged, to be true, but Jon had heard Bran say that the Kingsguard were the finest knights in all the Realm, and there was nothing about the way Ser Barristan carried himself that made him believe otherwise. He dismounted before the king he was sworn to protect, and then stepped over to the wheelhouse that had entered through the gate to help the royal family out and into the courtyard.

Jon could not help but look with awe at the Queen as she descended the steps. Cersei Lannister was as beautiful as everyone said, with long golden hair and piercing emerald eyes that appraised everything before her in a somewhat haughty but nonetheless regal manner. She shepherded her children out as well, with whom Jon was far less impressed. Truth be told, he could not even remember their names. Not that he would need to anyway. As a man of the Night's Watch, he would serve the Realm, not any one king or his issue. He had been told that the King had other children by his first wife, ahead of Cersei's in the line of succession, but he did not see them. They would be roughly his and Robb's age by now. Their father probably wanted them to have some practice in ruling the Realm, which is why he left them in King's Landing.

With that Jon looked to the King. He dismounted his black destrier gracefully, removing the dragon-winged helm upon his head and revealing a handsome face with all the features of Valyrian nobility, though clearly aged and worn from the stress of holding the Seven Kingdoms together. Well, six kingdoms, according to Robb. He never failed to remind Jon of how their father had gotten away with not paying tithes to King's Landing by directly paying off the Crown's debt to the Iron Bank, or how he only called the banners when the North itself was threatened, refusing the King's summons until Euron Greyjoy had been foolish enough to raid the Stony Shore. Their father was the Stark of Winterfell, Robb had said, and no matter what had happened south of the Neck among the First Men his word was law. Jon had believed it when he was young, and almost believed it now as he saw King Rhaegar's small retinue surrounded by angry, hostile Northmen.

But the bread and salt were offered all the same. The King was welcomed as a guest in his father's hall, despite everything he had done. It might have been too much for his brother but Jon was not surprised. Jon perhaps lacked the head for tactics that Robb had, but he knew the North did not have the men to go to war against the entire South, even if half the Southron troops would probably catch cold and die at the mere sight of a summer snow. That's why denying the King the right to travel in what were technically his own lands was so perilous. But the King risked much by coming here, for Maester Luwin had told him the only thing that kept the peace between the Iron Throne and the North was an unspoken agreement between King Rhaegar and his father. The King would stay out of the North's business, and Lord Eddard would return the favor.

"Your Grace," said Jon's father icily. "We welcome you to Winterfell." The King arched an eyebrow at this, the Queen almost scoffed, and Jon himself had to admit he was surprised by his father's choice of words. He had heard Sansa go over the courtly courtesies of a royal visit so many times he could remember almost all of them. She had prattled on about how when the King arrived Lord Eddard would bow, offer him Ice and say "Your Grace, Winterfell is yours." But that was not what happened. After partaking of the bread and salt the King made his reply.

"We thank you for your hospitality, Lord Eddard." The King's voice was even and courtly, if he was perturbed there was not the slightest hint of it in his tone. He looked over the trueborn children with melancholy and turned back to Jon's father. "Are these your children?"

"Yes, Your Grace," Lord Eddard replied. "Allow me to present my eldest, Robb, my second and third sons, Bran and Rickon, and my two daughters, Sansa and Arya." Each bowed or curtsied as Jon imagined he would have had to were he allowed down there with them, each murmuring 'Your Grace' politely and audibly. Rhaegar looked over each of them, but he seemed dissatisfied.

"And the Bastard of Winterfell?"

"I did not think it appropriate to present a child of low birth to Your Grace," interjected Lady Catelyn. "Please, let us show you to your chambers, I'm sure you would like some rest after—"

"Where is _my son_ , Lord Eddard?" The King seemed to lose a great deal of his composure. Gasps and looks of confusion rippled across the courtyard. Lady Catelyn looked at Jon's father with an utter lack of comprehension, and Queen Cersei did the same to the King. "Did you really think you could keep him from me forever? Did you honestly believe I wouldn't find out?"

"This is not how we agreed to do this," Lord Eddard spat. "Jon, get down here!" shouted his father, all courtly courtesy gone from his voice. Jon could barely believe what he was hearing. _My son_? What could King Rhaegar possibly mean by that? He hurried down and entered the courtyard, standing by his father, who put his hand on Jon's shoulder reassuringly.

"I knew I wouldn't have to," Lord Eddard told the King. "Jon's nearly a man grown and can make his own decisions. In less than a week's time he intends to join the Night's Watch." It was then that the King turned his full attention towards Jon. His gaze was withering and thorough, as if he was trying to pick apart and dissect every part of Jon, to stare into his very soul.

"They call you Jon?" he asked, frustration evident in his voice.

"Y-yes, Your Grace," Jon stammered back. The King looked back at Jon's father.

"Lyanna and I had agreed upon Jaehaerys."

"You left my sister in no state to name him, Your Grace." Jon's father replied.

"Ned, what is he talking about?" asked Lady Catelyn. The King laughed.

"You never even told your own wife?" The King could not help but reveal his disdain. "How many years did she suffer thinking you had dishonored her, when the boy wasn't even yours?"

"Father?" Jon looked at Lord Eddard desperately. He had so many questions, but they all seemed to stick in his throat. He couldn't think of anything else to say.

"I promised you we'd speak of your mother when I returned," Lord Eddard told him, "because I knew, one way or another, that we would have to. I had hoped it wouldn't have to be like this."

"As you said, Lord Eddard, the boy is nearly a man grown and can make his own decisions. Perhaps it would be better if he knew the truth before he did."

"Father, what's going on?" begged Jon. Everything seemed wrong. He needed to know what was happening.

"That man may have raised you, boy, but he is not your father," the King told him. "Your mother was his sister, and Lord Stark is far too honorable to have committed incest." The King cast a sideways glance at Cersei that would have gone unnoticed had she not huffed indignantly at the words.

 _His sister?_ Jon thought. _Aunt Lyanna? But King Rhaegar abducted and raped her. That would mean…_

"Yes, boy," the King pronounced in the same tone as he might use to pass judgment on a disloyal vassal. "I am your father."

 _No,_ thought Jon. _That's not true. That's impossible._

"My love," interjected the Queen, "Surely we have traveled so far for matters of far greater importance than this. Allow yourself some rest and we can return to the subject of the bastard—"

"He is no bastard," said the King. "Kings have taken more than one wife before, and Lyanna and I were wed before a Heart Tree. By your own law, Lord Eddard, she was mine." The Queen looked horrified by this, and even as confused as Jon was it was not hard to see why. If John were no bastard he would be ahead of all of her children in the line of succession. Should some misfortune befall Prince Aegon he would be the heir to the Iron Throne.

"I grow weary of this," the King went on. "Lord Eddard, have your servants show me to my chambers. We will have much to discuss after my party and I finally get some rest." Slowly he turned his attention back towards Jon.

"Jaehaerys, I promised your mother I would let you foster at Winterfell and I have fulfilled my oath. I could have simply ordered you south, but your uncle is right. You are nearly a man grown and can make your own decisions. By tomorrow evening I would know what you wish." With that the King strode off behind one of the castle's servants, with a mortified Queen and her children in tow. Jon looked to Lord Eddard, the man who for so many years he had called father, for some sign of reassurance, for something that might show that this was all an elaborate mummer's farce. He received nothing of the sort.

"I'm sorry, Jon," was all his uncle could say. Jon ran out of the courtyard, barely registering Arya and Robb and Bran and Rickon shouting his name. He ran into his chambers and shut the door, pulling the bolt forward so that none could enter. There was supposed to be a feast tonight in honor of the King's—of his father's arrival. He did not know if he would be in attendance. Not until he had made his decision.


	2. II Eddard

**Eddard**

Ned found himself sitting in his solar, staring at the man he hated most in all the world. If Rhaegar Targaryen was uncomfortable being alone with the Lord of Winterfell, Ned could not see it. The King sipped his wine pensively and looked around at the room's sparse decorations. His voice was low and soft, but the tension in the air made it seem as though it shattered the silence like a pick striking ice.

"Good vintage," he said flatly.

"We prefer ale in the North, Your Grace." A long pause followed.

"How much longer do you think he will keep us waiting? Perhaps I should call for my—"

"I'm in no mood for music, Your Grace." Those were the words Eddard said. What he wanted to say was _if you bring that bloody harp in here I'll break it over your fucking head._

"Perhaps at the feast, then." Another long pause followed, one which made it harder and harder for Ned to stand on ceremony. Finally, he spoke.

"You violated our agreement," he told the King.

"And who violated it first, Lord Eddard?" Rhaegar replied, sounding somewhat amused. "We promised to stay out of each other's affairs, and you took what was mine."

"I made a promise to Lyanna." Ned didn't raise his voice, but he didn't need to. Like any dishonorable Southron Rhaegar had an appreciation for subtleties.

"The woman was delirious. She had no right—"

"She had every right. You weren't there."

"I won't apologize for doing what was needed."

"And abducting my sister, forcing her into a marriage bed and getting her with child, I suppose that was needed as well?" They had had this conversation once before, although Ned had said nothing about Jon the first time. He was dissatisfied with Rhaegar's answer then, just as he knew he would be now.

"For reasons I fear you will not understand even now, yes it was, though I find it amusing that you of all people believe your sister could have been forced into anything. But think of what you're saying, Lord Eddard. Would you have really preferred that the boy never be born at all?" Rhaegar had him there. So much suffering, so much destruction had been caused by Rhaegar and Lyanna's decision to run away together. No one man's life, no matter how precious or important it would prove to be, would ever be able to make up for it. But he had come to love Jon as a son. Had it been him and not the King who had asked him that question, Eddard would have said no. Instead, he stayed silent, unwilling to give Rhaegar the pleasure of victory.

"But all this is in the past," Rhaegar continued. "We must put it aside, for the boy's sake and for our own. Winter is coming, Lord Eddard." That was it. Ned rose to his feet in rage at hearing his own family's words turned upon him, used as a Southron trick to hide half-truths and avoid plain talk.

"I should have killed you in the Marches when I had the chance!" The words hung like a sword between the two men, and Eddard regretted saying them immediately. But part of him was glad he had. Rhaegar, for his part, allowed himself a small smile, as if he were savoring the victory that came with getting a rise out of the famously cold Lord Paramount of the North.

"I was in your power, true, but what would have happened if you had?" he mused. "The Dornishmen were coming through the Prince's Pass, the Tyrells were regrouping but a few days' march away, and the lion banner flew everywhere from Kayce to King's Landing. You would not have returned home alive, and the best of the North would have died with you. What would have become of the lands you love so dearly? What would have become of your son?"

"At least I care for my sons." For a moment Ned managed to calm himself, but he knew Rhaegar could still see his anger. The uncharacteristic fire had once again simmered down to cold hatred.

"And for the sons of others, even when they do not wish it."

"I saved Jon from the South! I saved him from vipers and lions and dragons who all had a reason to want him dead. I saved him from being a living reminder of everything wrong with you and your rule! I gave him a home where he was safe, where he was loved, where he might learn what it means to be honorable!"

"And in doing so you tried rob Jaehaerys of his destiny!" Now it was Rhaegar's turn to rise. He was not as tall as Ned, but his eyes burned with the mad fire of his house as he met his vassal's gaze. "You tore him from the arms of his family and stripped him of everything he was so he could live as an outcast in the keep of a man who only pretended to be his father! You've kept up this mummer's farce far too long to speak of honor, Lord Eddard."

"And how long have you known?" Ned shot back. "How long did you let me keep this up without so much as a word? If what I did was so terrible, why did you do nothing?!"

"Because you weren't the only one who made a promise to Lyanna!" Rhaegar lunged forward, but stopped himself before he came to grips with Ned. Eddard had thrown up his arms in defense, but lowered them slowly as he realized that the King would not strike him. Rhaegar's normally smooth silver-blonde hair looked tangled and disheveled, and the fire in his eyes burned with more intensity than Eddard had seen in any man, even in the heat of battle. _This must be what Aerys looked like near the end_ , thought Eddard. But slowly, as the King stared at his own reflection in Ned's eyes, he began to calm himself. _He sees what he is becoming, and he doesn't like it._

"And whatever nonsense you may have told yourself to justify your theft of my son, you were right about one thing," he went on. "He is safe here, and I cannot afford to lose him. He will have too important a role to play in what is to come." _Just when I thought he was beginning to act like a father_ , thought Ned. And then it dawned on him.

"Shouldn't Jon be here by now?" Rhaegar gave him a look that showed he had come to the same conclusion.

"I have guards posted at the doors and a man watching the windows," Ned added. "If he weren't in his room, I would know about it."

"And I sent Ser Barristan to retrieve him some time ago. Had he failed I doubtless would have been informed."

"I'll go talk to him," Ned told the King, but as he turned to leave the solar Rhaegar placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Lord Eddard, wait." Rhaegar looked at him with an expression Ned couldn't place. It was almost pleading. "The boy needs his father." Ned pulled away from the King without being too rude or abrupt.

"That he does, Your Grace, but right now that means the man who raised him." With that Ned took his leave of the King and followed a path he knew well, following the hallways and passages of Winterfell until he reached Jon's room. Every servant or bannerman he passed eyed him nervously, as if they did not know what to think of him. _What has this done to my legacy?_ He thought. _Will men still follow me after this?_

Finally he reached the room of the boy he once called his own. His guards were standing, silent and ready, as an old man in ornate armor and a white cloak banged against the door.

"Your Grace, you have been summoned by the King!" cried an exasperated Ser Barristan.

"I'm not coming out!" cried a muffled voice from behind the door.

"Your father has ordered that you attend him in Lord Stark's solar. There is much that must be discussed before we return to the capital, Your Grace!"

"Stop calling me that!"

"I can take it from here, Ser Barristan," Ned told him as his men stood at attention. He bid them to be at ease and saw a look of relief spread over Ser Barristan's wizened features.

"The Knights of the Kingsguard are not known to run from a fight," he said, "but I know when I am outmatched. Do your worst, Lord Eddard."

"Jon, open up! It's your…" Ned found the word 'father' caught in his throat. "…It's me."

"Go away! If I won't leave my chambers for the King, what makes you think I'd do it for you, _Lord Eddard_?" Being called by his title took Ned aback, but as much as it hurt him he understood. He wasn't the only one who had a hard time using the word 'father.'

"You don't have to come out, Jon. You don't even have to let me in. Just listen, please." Silence. Eddard took that as a good sign.

"I know you must be confused. I know I may not understand how you feel. But I also know you must have questions. Mayhaps the King and I can answer them. You don't have to say anything right now, but please, think on what I have said. Things are bad now, but they will not get better until you understand who you are and what you want, and you cannot do that if you never leave your chambers. I'll be waiting out here for you when you're ready." With that Ned pushed up against the wall opposite the door and slumped into a seated position on the floor. He waved the guards off; he was more than capable of watching the boy. He saw Ser Barristan was still standing there, taking up a post vacated by his own bannermen. Ned shot him a quizzical look, which caused the old knight to smile.

"The king has given me a charge, Lord Eddard. One way or another, I will see it through." And so they waited for what seemed like hours but was probably far shorter than that. Ned thought he heard a _thump_ come from inside the room. _Perhaps the boy knocked something over in a fit of rage_ , Ned thought. _It may be a while before he's ready._ He continued to wait, but sooner than Ned had expected he heard the door being unbarred. As it swung open he saw John, Arya and Bran emerge from the room. Scarcely able to contain his shock, he rose to his feet and looked to his children in a way that demanded an explanation.

"Robb distracted the man watching the window while we climbed in," Arya, the better liar of the two, said innocently. _That explains Bran, but not her._ Ned decided he would have the chambers searched for secret passageways later.

"We just wanted Jon to know that no matter what happens, he's still our brother," Bran blurted out. Ned smiled at this, but it also dawned on him that that meant Jon had not left his room because of anything he had said. He looked into the boy's eyes and could see the two of them were a long way from any sort of reconciliation.

"I'm ready, Lord Eddard," Jon said.

"Jon, you don't have to call me that if you don't want," Ned replied crestfallen.

"Then I'm not sure what to call you." There was a long pause that was only interrupted by the soft padding of feet as the white dire wolf pup approached his master. _Gods they grow fast._

"Can Ghost come too?" Jon asked. Eddard thought for a moment, but nodded his assent. At this point, the pup was probably the only constant in the boy's life, it would be wrong to rob him of it. _Not after I've taken so much_. Jon picked Ghost up by the scruff of his neck and held him close as he and Ned walked back towards the solar, with Ser Barristan falling into step behind him. He waved off Bran and Arya before turning his thoughts to what lay ahead.

 _If Rhaegar knows what's good for him, I won't find him in my solar with that bloody harp._


	3. III The Prince No One Wanted

**The Prince No One Wanted**

The sun was almost completely below the horizon before Jon decided to come down from the castle walls. He knew the feast had already started, and he had given his word to both Lord Eddard and the King that he would be in attendance. The sounds of laughter and merriment had already begun to waft through the air with the smell of roast meats. He took one last look at the sun as it streaked the sky with red, giving way to the black of night. _The colors of my house._ It was a strange thought, but one he supposed he would have to get used to.

By the time he had descended the stairs and wandered down to the courtyard, Ghost was waiting for him, silent and ready. The wolf had taken up the habit of wandering around the castle, often being paid no mind by the various servants, guards, and others that seemed content to go about their business. Ghost didn't seem much to mind going unnoticed, almost as if he was born without the expectation of receiving attention. Jon thought it was because he was the runt of the litter, a bastard just like his master. _But I'm not a bastard, am I?_

Once the doors of the great hall were in view he allowed himself a deep breath before taking the plunge. As soon as he stepped through those doors, his life would never be the same. He had some knowledge of courtly manners, but from what he had been told there was a much greater emphasis on them in King's Landing than in the North. This would be a Northern feast, to be sure, but he decided he would ask someone in the royal party how he might be expected to carry himself at a Southron dinner. Oddly enough, he thought it might be easier to ask Lady Catelyn. Unlike the Targaryens, she wasn't a stranger, and had seemed to have warmed to him in the short time since they had all learned the truth of his parentage. But she was still the woman who had treated him with hate and mistrust, who had tried to drive a wedge between him and her children, though she had only succeeded in doing so with Sansa. Although even that seemed not to have lasted. Sansa sought Jon out after his talk with Lord Eddard and the King to prattle on about how his life was just like one of the songs. How he had been hidden for his safety by his noble uncle but could now take his rightful place as a gallant prince. The whole thing made Jon want to wretch.

"Hello, bastard," came a voice from across the courtyard. Jon turned and saw a small man approach, goblet of wine in hand as he waddled over to where the boy was standing. He was perhaps a bit taller than Bran, with hair both pale-blonde and black and two mismatched eyes, one emerald green and one black as night. He walked up to Jon, took a sip of wine, and began to look him up and down, as if he were appraising an animal for auction.

"You're Tyrion Lannister, the Queen's brother?" Jon asked. He had heard tales about the Imp, and just like many of Old Nan's stories they were somewhat exaggerated. The little Lannister was ugly, to be certain, but the fabled scales and fangs were fortunately missing.

"And one-time Master of Coin! Quite right, bastard! It seems that is a head on your shoulders. Mayhaps you'll actually survive down in King's Landing."

"I'm no bastard!" Jon shot back, somewhat halfheartedly. He could still barely believe it himself.

"And if the Children of the Forest still walked the earth they would say I'm no dwarf, but neither of those things would do us any good in the capital."

"I…I'm still not sure if I'm going to King's Landing," Jon admitted. Other than the King and his…Lord Eddard, Jon still hadn't spoken of his looming decision to anyone else. It felt good to admit his insecurity though, and despite the dwarf's jape he could tell there was something sympathetic in his tone, as if he might have some inkling of what Jon was feeling.

"If not, you should consider accompanying me to the Wall on this little fact-finding mission of mine. The King has tasked me with a thorough appraisal of the state of the Night's Watch. You seem the quiet sort, but you'd doubtless be better conversation than some of these pig-headed knights who came north with me."

"I thought the King was a learned man." Jon said, surprised at Tyrion's apparent disinterest in King Rhaegar's company. The man who had just revealed himself as Jon's father was supposedly well-read and skilled in poetry and song.

"Oh, he most certainly is," laughed the Imp, "but of late he's become more learned in snarks and grumkins than the world we live in. I should warn you, if you do return with him to King's Landing he may be your only friend there. You're now one more warm body to stand between my sweet sister's little Daeron and the Iron Throne, and when Aegon and Rhaenys find out about you they'll no doubt resent having a living reminder of their father's betrayal of their mother around. Gods be good, lad, you haven't even arrived and you've alienated the entire court!" At this Tyrion let out a little chuckle, causing Jon to laugh along nervously.

"With so many princes in the capital, I can see why it wouldn't count for much," Jon tried to pass this off as a joke, but from the way Tyrion looked at him he realized he must have sounded sullen.

"Had you been raised in the court it might have," said the Imp, taking another swig of wine at the prospect. "But as a secret prince? Your mother and father were wed in a ceremony scarcely performed south of the Neck, and one which a clever septon would denounce in the name of piety and at the behest of an interested party. You're the prince no one wanted, which is why no matter what your father or anyone else may say you'll always be a bastard."

"You would speak to your Prince that way, Lord Tyrion?" Jon wanted to feign anger, to appear as a slighted noble might when his birth was called into question, but he had little practice and doubted he had been convincing. He had gone his entire life without being able to defend the honor of a mother he never knew and a father who claimed him as a mistake. Even now he couldn't make himself feel anger, just an old familiar ache. Ghost seemed to understand, whimpering and nuzzling his master's leg.

"Let me give you some advice, bastard," said Tyrion. "Never forget what you are. The rest of the world will not. Wear it like armor, and it will never be used to hurt you." At last, Jon found his fury.

"What the hells do you know about being a bastard, Imp?!" Ghost joined him in a low growl. Tyrion sighed, shook his head, and took another swig of wine, this time not stopping until the cup was completely dry.

"All dwarves are bastards in their father's eyes, Your Grace. But come! Let's to the feast! It's almost beginning to sound lively and I need more wine." The Imp went over to the doors to the great hall and Jon followed him in, unsurprised to see he was right.

The feast was definitely now in full swing, but it was evident many of the more notable attendees were in no mood for celebrating. Jon had seen Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn speaking after he had left the man's solar, but those wounds had yet to heal, and after a long, awkward conversation with Lord Eddard and King Rhaegar it was obvious that they did not enjoy each other's company. When the Queen deigned to look at Jon at all, it was with utter disdain, although her children seemed to mostly just be curious. Baelor and Visenya were the two youngest, a boy and girl of seven and eight. Daeron, the eldest, was nearly of an age with Sansa. He looked at Jon with contempt, but not a contempt mixed with the hatred Jon could see in his mother's gaze. Tyrion took a seat at the far end of the main table at the hall beside his youngest nephew, and pointed to where Jon was expected to sit, to the left of his father the King. As he approached he caught Robb's gaze and the two shared a smile. The boy who he once knew as his brother's face was already somewhat flushed, meaning Jon wasn't sure if he would like to hear what he was about to say.

"So nice of you finally to join us, _Jaharys_!" Robb japed. "Jaeharys? Jarjarys? You Targaryens make your damned Valyrian names so hard to pronounce!" Jon shared a laugh with his cousin as Robb motioned for Jeyne Poole to pour him some wine. As she approached Jon with a goblet, the steward's daughter offered it to him with a guilty stare and a slight blush. Jon hadn't spoken with Jeyne much, but he knew she gossiped about him with Sansa and that her father Vayon would not allow her to spend time with him. Jon had heard since he was too young to understand that the passion that led to bastardry made bastards passionate themselves, and he suspected that had been a part of the steward's reasoning. Not that he had ever felt any more passionate than Robb, or Jeyne Poole for that matter with the looks she was giving him. Jon decided to thank her politely and excuse himself.

"I think my first royal decree will be to forbid that name to be spoken in my presence!" Jon said as he quickly and good-naturedly wheeled on Robb.

"As you wish, Your Grace!" Robb replied facetiously as he stood up from his seat to bow.

"Robb!" Lord Eddard called from the middle of the main table where he sat to the right of the King. "Keep your wits about you. There will be an important announcement and we can't have you looking like a fool in front of our bannermen."

"Yes, father." Robb poured the rest of his wine into Jon's goblet, causing it just barely to run over.

"Thanks," said Jon.

"Anything for a brother."

"Cousin," Jon corrected before looking down at his wine. "Though after a few more of these I think the distinction will be lost on me."

"Jaehaerys!" Rhaegar's voice resounded and Jon looked to see the King staring expectantly at him, silently demanding that he take his seat. Jon excused himself from Robb, only to see him, Bran, and Rickon all snickering at the use of that awful name, and sat beside the King. Rhaegar took a sip of his wine and a bite of meat before turning to his son. Seeing the King's cheeks somewhat flushed at well, Jon was unsure what might come next.

"The venison here is different than in King's Landing," he said evenly. "More gamey, though reasonably well-spiced, all things considered. Do you know if there is anything different in the preparation or if it has something to do with the animal?"

"It's elk, Your Grace," Jon told him.

"So it is," the King mused. Much of their conversation continued on that way, but it was to be expected after the long, painful talk they had had in Lord Stark's solar. It was hard for Jon to be this close to the King and not think of the some of Rhaegar's answers to his questions, how cryptic some of them were, as if he wasn't sure of them himself or as if he couldn't explain his behavior without recourse to hunches and feelings only he had known. The worst was when Jon had asked the King if he had loved his mother. The words would no doubt haunt him for years.

 _She was…important to me._ The Wall began to look more appealing.

"Are you excited to finally be leaving this frozen waste of a kingdom, brother?" Jon remembered, much to his dismay, that the Targaryen children had been seated in order of seniority, putting him next to Daeron, who had just returned from chatting with a now red-faced Sansa. The prince stared at Jon as if he were talking to a simpleton.

"Daeron, be good to your brother," counseled the King. "He has lived in the North his whole life. And even if he hadn't, I doubt he would be as uncharitable in his assessment of it as you are in yours."

"If I'm to be Daeron the Good, father, shouldn't I defend my inheritance against jumped-up bastards?" Rhaegar shot his third son a murderous glare, one that made the boy cringe a bit. But then he turned his attention back to Jon. He wasn't finished.

"That's a reference to the family history, in case you were wondering."

"Clever," noted Jon. "Reading all those history books must take time. Tell me, have you ever found a moment to put down one of those books and pick up a sword?"

"I've been trained by some of the finest knights in the Realm," Daeron pronounced, choosing his words more carefully now that the eyes of his father were on him.

"If you mean those white cloaks of yours, with a mouth like that I imagine they spend more time defending you than training you."

"Peace, Jaehaerys," warned the King. "Do you both wish to wake the dragon this night?" Jon speared himself a sausage off a passing tray and quickly filled his mouth to avoid further conversation. He almost spit it out when he heard the voice of a small girl behind him.

"Hi Jae, my name is Visenya too." Swallowing his food, Jon turned to see the smiling little Targaryen princess tugging at his sleeve.

"Father told me you were supposed to be a girl, and he and Aunt Lyanna were going to call you Visenya, just like me. Jaehaerys was a just-in-case name for if he was wrong."

"I had also considered Visenyon," the King added, "but it was unattested in any of the genealogies." Jon groaned. When a figure all in black caught his eye, Jon turned to see his uncle Benjen approaching the man he once thought his father. Jon asked the King to excuse him without waiting for a response, running over with the other Stark children to greet the First Ranger of the Night's Watch.

"Uncle Benjen!" shouted Bran, wrapping the lean man in a warm embrace. Arya and Rickon joined him in doing so, while Sansa curtsied politely and Robb waited until his younger siblings were out of the way to grip his uncle's forearm in greeting. Jon approached and tried to copy his former brother, but Benjen would have none of it, pulling him into a hug with almost as much abandon as Bran.

"Jon! Look how you've grown! Or is it—"

"Jon. It'll always be Jon."

"Whatever you say, Janoris," joked Rickon, although Jon wasn't sure if the boy has mispronounced the name on purpose or was genuinely unaware of how to say it.

"Listen, uncle, I was hoping I could talk to you," said Jon, "about maybe joining the Night's Watch."

"And I was hoping to talk to you about the same thing," Benjen replied. Turning back to the others, he said, "Excuse me, loves, as soon as Jon and I are done I promise I'll have enough time for all my nieces and nephews." They took a few steps to the side until they were out of earshot of the Stark children before Jon spoke.

"I promised the King I would make my decision by tomorrow night," Jon said. "But I'm still not sure what I should do. I don't know anything about King's Landing, and I don't want to go all the way down there just to find out I'm no good at being a prince."

"Jon, there's much you don't know about life at the Wall, either," his uncle counseled him. "You may think you understand it, but it's a hard life, and not one suited for a prince with so much to live for."

"But everyone says I'll still be a bastard, and I'm the second son!" Jon almost shouted. "Everything will go to Aegon, and I've got no friends at court!"

"Then make some. It's what you would have to do as a sworn brother. I wouldn't be able to be there for you as often as you think. My duties as First Ranger take me far beyond the Wall for weeks at a time. You would have to make a new family for yourself, same as in King's Landing."

"But the every man of the Night's Watch swears an oath! There's honor up there. I could trust my brothers more than I could those Targaryens." Benjen sighed at this.

"There's little honor among thieves, Jon. Or among rapers or murderers for that matter. Who do you think your new brothers would be? There are many of us who care for the Realm, but many more who chose the Wall over an executioner's block."

"So you don't want me either?" Jon knew his uncle could hear the hurt in his voice. This is not what he had wanted to hear. He realized now that he had just wanted Benjen to say that he was needed at the Wall, that it was the one place where he could belong and where he could do good, without living under the shadow of an older brother or trueborn siblings.

"The Night's Watch would be lucky to have you," Benjen said consolingly. "But in all your reasonings and justifications, all you've done is talk about King's Landing. I know it's a hard thing to go to a place like that, but if it isn't a home for you, you needn't try and make it one. If the Wall really is your destiny, it will still be there when you're done in the South." Jon gave his uncle a weak smile, showing he had gotten through to him, before turning to look at the Lord of Winterfell as his voice echoed through the hall.

"My Lords!" Lord Eddard had risen from his seat, holding his tankard of ale aloft as he called the attention of the hall to himself. Jon could see why Robb had been chastised about looking foolish in front of the Stark bannermen. Most of the important ones were here. He could see the Umbers, the Manderlys, the Glovers, the Ryswells, the Flints, the Dustins, and even the Boltons. Most of them had ridden down with Lord Eddard to meet the King at Moat Cailin. It had no doubt made the feast hideously expensive, but from what Jon had heard everyone had put something in, and the North was in a stable enough position financially because of the lower taxes Lord Eddard had negotiated out of the Rebellion.

"The King and I have an announcement!" One of Jon's father's gave way to the other as Rhaegar also rose, his smile warm and unburdened. This was not enough to stop some of the murderous glares he received from many of the Northmen. They looked to Lord Eddard, who despite the fact that he was announcing what he clearly considered to be good news, could only manage a civil countenance as Rhaegar began to speak.

"My Lords!" the King shouted, his voice strong and musical. "The North and the Crown have had many years of peace and friendship, as have House Targaryen and House Stark!" The hall had grown tense, but undaunted, Rhaegar continued.

"Indeed this is how it was in days of old, when my forebears made a pact with those of Lord Eddard. A pact I would see honored this night!" Murmurs could be heard amongst the assembled lords.

"When my ancestors fought and killed one another in the Dance of the Dragons, Lord Cregan Stark came to the aid of Queen Rhaenyra. In exchange, the hand of a Targaryen princess was offered to House Stark. When I leave your fair country I may take a Targaryen from you, but you will not be long without our presence." Jon clenched his teeth at this. With the way the King was talking in front of so many lords it would be difficult to refuse him. He looked at Benjen, who nodded understandingly. The murmurs grew.

"For it is to Lord Stark's son and heir that I pledge the hand of my sister, the Princess Daenerys!" The initial response was gasps and shocks. Not quite what the king had hoped for, Jon thought.

"And as her dowry, I offer a reprieve on royal taxes until she is wedded and bedded!" At this cheers and roars of approval thundered through the hall.

"Lord Umber!" bellowed the King. "What say you of my offer?" Why King Rhaegar had asked the opinion of Jon Umber, the massive man known as the Greatjon among Northerners, was something Jon couldn't wrap his head around. The man was the head of an important enough house, with their seat at Last Hearth being the first line of defense against the any Wildlings that got over the Wall, but the man was clearly drunk, and from what Jon had heard he had little love for the Targaryens.

"You were right to ask my opinion, Yer Grace," slurred the Greatjon. "For I'm a man who speaks his mind, especially when I've gotten a few of these in me!" He lifted up a tankard Jon suspected had come with him from Last Hearth, for it hard the Umber sigil upon it and was twice the size of any Jon had seen in Winterfell.

"You spoke of friendship and service, and the North has given the dragons that! We've even _forgiven_ you for things other friends might find unpardonable," at the mention of the Rebellion Jon was terrified at the change in mood. There were "here, heres" and murmurs of assent throughout the hall. Queen Cersei's face was twisted into a scowl, as hardened into place as the face on a heart tree. King Rhaegar watched Lord Umber carefully, his expression revealing nothing.

"BUT WE GAVE YOU A GOOD BLOODY BEATING IN FRONT OF THE WHOLE REALM FIRST!" Rhaegar lifted his goblet in assent at this and the whole room cheered. The King was smiling and laughing, something Jon hadn't expected. _Perhaps the wine is starting to affect him_ , Jon thought. _I haven't known him for long, but there's something strange about that smile._ The Queen remained mortified. Daeron was fuming, but with his father present he seemed to know his place.

"Not to be draggin' up old quarrels, Yer Grace, but the point is the Northmen are the strongest fighters and the truest friends the Realm has ever known. You'll see it more clearly when you take yer bastard down to that rat's nest you call King's Landing!" _Still a bastard,_ Jon thought.

"So what do I say of yer offer? I say it's about time we got some bloody respect up here! To Robb Stark, a good lad and a good-brother to the King in the North!" Jon noted how the last few words had been emphasized, as had the royal family. He had heard it said that after years of being left to their own devices, some in the North would have the Starks take up their old title, going from vassals of House Targaryen to kings in their own right. His doubts over whether this had just been a coincidence were erased when he heard the Greatjon start a chant that many other lords joined him in.

"The King in the North! The King in the North! The King in the North!" Lord Eddard had to calm them, suspecting the unruly crowd of his own bannermen might not have stopped for Rhaegar.

"Peace, Lord Umber," he said, before turning to the King, who clearly wished to speak.

"Well said, Lord Umber," chuckled the King. "You clearly have some of that famed Northern sense and fondness for plain talk. Those are things I hope to avail myself of should my son join me in the capital. What say you, Prince Jon, will you help me clean out that rat's nest of mine?" All eyes in the hall had turned to Jon, who was surprised to hear the King call him by the name he grew up with. He looked to his uncle Benjen, who gave him an encouraging nod.

"Aye, that I will, Your Grace."

"But he shall not go alone!" This time it was the Greatjon's son, called the Smalljon by many, who spoke. "My father has had his say and so will I! Prince Jon may be the son of a dragon, but the blood of wolves flows through him, and a wolf is nothing without his pack! I swear by the Old Gods, the only real gods north of the neck, that Jon can have my sword as long as he has need of it in the south!"

"Aye, he shall have my sword as well!" roared Jorah Mormont.

"And my bow!" shouted Domeric Bolton.

"And my axe!" bellowed Eddard Karstark.

"I had intended to send a few of my own men to accompany him," said Lord Eddard. "But a pack's strength lies in its numbers, so I have no doubt Jon will welcome you."

"Every last one of you is welcome to come with me!" shouted Jon. "I know not what possesses you to leave your seats in so fair a country, but I could use your strength in the times ahead."

"So it shall be!" cried the King, apparently eager to celebrate. "Music! Someone bring me my harp!" The bard at the feast came forth with both Rhaegar's harp and one of his own. The two shared a look like that of old friends and moved to the center of the hall, where they began to play a surprisingly lively tune, though one not so bawdy as to sully the image of the King. Nonetheless the joy that had previously been somewhat absent from the party was now fully evident. Jon grabbed a flagon of mead, which truth be told he preferred to the Southron wine his brother-cousin-good-uncle had poured him and drank the whole thing in one mighty gulp. As he felt his face become flushed he allowed himself a laugh that his uncle Benjen joined him in. _Perhaps this could be the start of something good._


	4. IV Tyrion

**Tyrion**

They had made him leave early. Well, technically they hadn't made him do anything. His sister the queen had simply promised Benjen Stark and his black brothers some good wine and salted pork to take up to Castle Black if they set out the day after the feast. Of course it couldn't have occurred to her that his mission required he go with them, she had done it out of nothing more than the kindness of her heart. She had doubtless been unaware that it would have been nearly suicide for a dwarf, and a Lannister dwarf at that, to travel virtually alone with a small guard in the middle of the North. The land itself almost seemed hostile. Two-hundred and eight leagues of bleak, desolate, inhospitable terrain had stood between him and the Wall when he had first left Winterfell, and every mile of it seemed more dismal and dreary than the one before. _And this is what it looks like in summer._

He rode up alongside Benjen, offering the First Ranger a friendly smile. It went unreciprocated. For what might have been the tenth time, he tried to strike up conversation.

"You know, Lord Benjen, I've been thinking," he said in the friendliest tone he could muster after so many rejections.

"Always dangerous, thinking," the Stark replied gruffly. Good sense might have told Tyrion to leave it at that, but the road was long and he needed to pass the time.

"Dangerous, I'll admit, but when the gods bless you with a large head and tiny limbs you find you don't have the talent for much else. What say we play a little joke on the next people we meet on the road?"

"We won't meet any people." Tyrion knew the First Ranger spoke truthfully on this point. Three castles guarding a three hundred mile stretch of land meant small raiding parties must get through quite often. From what Tyrion understood the majority of the smallfolk who had once lived in the lands granted to the Watch were either dead or had fled to the demesne of House Umber nearby.

"But suppose we do. Word travels slowly this far north. How do you think they would react if I told them I was your prisoner, sent to join the Night's Watch for the horrible crimes of House Lannister?"

"And you'd tell them you're a Lannister?" Benjen raised an eyebrow at this.

"Oh yes," Tyrion said, a mischievous grin upon his face. "That way I could have them guess at what sordid deeds had me banished to the Wall."

"They wouldn't guess," Benjen told him.

"And why not?"

"We're too far north. They wouldn't know what a Lannister is."

"Well suppose they do. Suppose we're dealing with a wandering maester or a surprisingly literate band of peasants."

"They still wouldn't guess."

"And your reason this time?"

"You're a Lannister. They already know you're guilty of something."

"Come now, Lord Benjen," Tyrion continued. "I may have my vices, but partaking of the joys of wine and women is hardly a crime."

"You wouldn't be able to do that as a man of the Watch, you know," Benjen said, finally indulging Tyrion. "You'd be breaking your vows."

"Tell that to the fair maidens of Mole's Town. From what I understand those vows are more honored in the breach than the observance."

"Honored in the breach?"

"Just something I read somewhere. A tale of a Northern prince, I believe. He was a miserable lad, I imagine he'd fit right in at the Wall."

"You know I think I've heard that one," Benjen said. "But the way I remember it he was driven mad by incest and intrigue. Sounds more like your kind of fellow." A long pause followed.

"Where do you think I would fit in as a black brother, Lord Benjen?" Tyrion asked.

"You'd be a sorry sight as a ranger, that much is certain."

"Oh, come now, I'd like to think with an axe in my hand and a bit of training I could be the terror of every kneecap beyond the Wall!" Benjen chuckled at this. Tyrion was glad to have broken through the First Ranger's icy exterior, but he disliked the reminder that the easiest way he could make someone warm up to him was with a jape at his own expense.

"I doubt you'd have the frame to be a builder, either," mused Benjen. "Maybe the stewards. Tell me, Lord Tyrion, has a lord of your stature ever stooped down to clean anything?" The half-concealed smirk on the Stark's face made it obvious he thought he was being clever.

"I'll have you know that when I was a lad, my lord father put me in charge of all the cisterns and drains at Casterly Rock! In no time at all I had them cleaner and working better than they had in centuries!"

"If you told that to the Lord Commander, you'd do nothing else for the rest of your life." Benjen was almost smiling now, and Tyrion had almost convinced himself he had made a friend.

"Surely the need for Washers on the Wall is not so desperate? How many men hold Castle Black?"

"Six-hundred," talk of business seemed to have reminded the First Ranger who he was speaking to. "Two-hundred at the Shadow Tower and less than that at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. At least that's what it was last I checked. You'd have to ask the Lord Commander or Maester Aemon for the exact figures." Tyrion suspected that was the end of their conversation for the day, but for once he didn't care. As he and Benjen reached the top of the hill they had been ascending they could see it. As desolate and empty as the North may have been, the Wall made up for it. Standing in defiance of any known principles of engineering, the massive sheet of ice rose so high into the air Tyrion could swear he saw clouds about its top, and stretched so far in either direction that it seemed a boundary even to the horizon. Turning his attention to the top once more he could see the thin frames of catapults and small black dots that must have been the black brothers. 'One hundred leagues long' and 'seven hundred feet high' were meaningless phrases until one stood before their very instantiation. Nothing Tyrion had read in any book by Lomas Longstrider could do it justice.

Castle Black, however, left much to be desired. It was thrice as small as the Wall if one measured from the top of its highest tower, and its dank, shabby workings were laid bare by the fact that it was built to be utterly indefensible from an attack from the south. _If enough small parties could meet up after crossing the Wall,_ Tyrion thought morbidly. Supposedly that kind of sophistication was beyond the Wildlings. Some of the innovations introduced by Benjen, like randomizing the size and strength of ranging parties, had proven effective enough in keeping raiders in check. Tyrion tried to put the thought of a Wildling invasion out of his mind. The Watch had kept them in check for years, and even if the rumors of a new King-beyond-the-Wall were true, it was doubtful he would be able to unite enough of them for any serious attack on the Seven Kingdoms.

"When will I be meeting with the Lord Commander?" Tyrion asked.

"At the feast in your honor," Benjen stated. "But that won't be until tomorrow night. The Lord Commander expected that you'll want to get straight to work. I'm to escort you to the library to speak to Maester Aemon." With a sigh Tyrion goaded his pony on after the First Ranger as they both entered Castle Black through its main gate. He was disappointed that he would have to wait until the following evening to have a good meal and a good drink, but at least that evening he would have the chance to speak with a living legend.

The Maester Aemon Targaryen that King Rhaegar spoke of was wise, diligent, humble, and hardworking, everything a true maester should be. Given the somewhat combative stance the King had occasionally taken with the order, Tyrion was unsure of what to make of that assessment. Supposedly the two had been in correspondence for some time, and Rhaegar's fondness for his great-great-uncle had made him something of a household name in King's Landing, though not in the same way as Marwyn the Mage or the Red Witch of Dragonstone. Dismounting and following Benjen up the stairs out of the courtyard and into Castle Black's library, Tyrion was about to find out what truth surrounded the stories surrounding him.

Sitting at the end of a long table, surrounded by books and parchment, was a man of immense age. He was scribbling something on parchment, though he did not seem to be looking at what he was writing. Nonetheless, his expression was that of complete focus. Old withered robes hung about his frail body and a maester's chain was draped about his neck. Tyrion immediately recognized the links in the chain that symbolized mastery of skills useful to the Watch: black iron for ravenry, bronze for astronomy, silver for healing, pale steel for smithing, along with a few others besides. At the sound of Tyrion's arrival his head turned quickly towards the door, though his eyes seemed to search vainly, almost randomly, for the new arrivals.

"Who's there?" he asked. "Benjen, have you come with the Lannister?" _A blind old man? This is the famed Maester Aemon?_ Tyrion supposed he shouldn't have been surprised. The King had said something about his relative being able to see things more clearly at the Wall, and it was just like Rhaegar to lace his words with irony.

"No need to answer, my boy, I know it's you," the old man continued, a warm smile coming over his wrinkled face. "You smell too much like the road and I haven't heard a gait like that since a woman from Mole's Town brought her son with her and said he was Buckwell's." Benjen laughed at that.

"I don't think that comparison is entirely fair, Maester Aemon," Tyrion told him. "I doubt the Buckwell boy can hold his wine as well as I can." This elicited a chuckle from the old man.

"And he no doubt lacks your head for sums and figures. My nephew promised me a giant in that regard. Did he bother to tell you why?"

"He did not," Tyrion admitted. "Simply that I was to prepare a thorough appraisal of the state of the Watch."

"So like Rhaegar," the maester muttered. "He may ask me a thousand questions, but he seems determined to keep his own counsel." Tyrion had to admit that did sound like the Rhaegar he knew. "You can leave us, Benjen, giant though he may be, I think Tarly and I are safe from our guest. Speaking of which, Samwell! Did you find that book I asked you for?"

"It's here, Maester Aemon!" A fat, pudgy boy dressed in the black of the Night's Watch came stumbling out of the bookshelves with an ancient tome in his hands. Tyrion had heard Randyll Tarly had a son in the Watch, and supposed this must be him. The young Tarly was about to drop the book in front of the old maester, but Aemon stopped him with a wave of his hand before it could fall on the still wet ink. Extending his arms, he received the book from the boy and set it in his lap, running his fingers over the engraved cover, a slow smile coming to his face.

"Yes, I think this may be the one," he said. He motioned for Tyrion to come over to where he was sitting, and handed the book to him. Tyrion looked at the pages on which Maester Aemon had been writing and realized quickly that blindness had not made the man illiterate. On the parchment were a number of sums and figures in excellent handwriting. Turning his attention to the book once more Tyrion looked at the title: _A Survey and Summary of the Lands of the New Gift._ He had spent enough time in libraries to know that the tome was at least as old as the man who had handed it to him. He opened it carefully and began to slowly page through it, seeing to his astonishment what appeared to be a thorough record of the lands granted to the Night's Watch by Queen Alysanne some two hundred years ago, _from before they had been given to the Night's Watch_. What lords and keeps had been there, a census of the smallfolk, what incomes had been derived from the lands, all of it was there. Tyrion was unsure what surprised him more, that the old man thought he would need this volume or that it even existed.

"A bit out of date, but I have no doubt it will be useful in our task," Aemon assured him.

"I'm sorry, maester, but I must confess my ignorance as to its usefulness. What will this tell us about the Watch as it is now?"

"Only how far it has fallen, I'm afraid, but that's a part of our endeavor as well. King Rhaegar wouldn't have bothered to send one of his most valued counselors up here for a simple report, Lord Tyrion. Sam and I could have handled that on our own. No, you're to determine what it would take to get the Watch back to full strength, and then put forth a proposal for putting as many men on the Wall as possible before winter." Tyrion wished he had a goblet of wine in his hand so he had something to spit out.

"You can't be serious? What need is there for something like that?"

"I asked my nephew that same question in our correspondence. He thinks a great battle is coming and that the Realm must be prepared, that the Prince that was Promised must not falter." Tyrion scoffed at the mention of prophecy.

"I must admit I was a bit skeptical myself, Lord Tyrion, but the situation here at the Wall is far more dire than the Realm realizes. More and more patrols are disappearing, and those that do return come back with horrifying stories. For one, they say Mance Rayder has crowned himself King-beyond-the-Wall, and is gathering every fighting Wildling he can for an assault on the Seven Kingdoms. Laugh all you want at my nephew's obsession with prophecy, but we may soon face the most dire threat to the Realm since Raymun Redbeard, and that's if we're lucky."

"And if we aren't?" Tyrion asked against his better judgment. It seemed the King was chasing something more substantial than snarks and grumkins, but he couldn't see how there would be anything else to fear besides a Wildling invasion, however disastrous that may be. Maester Aemon let out a long sigh, and motioned for Samwell to help him to his feet.

"I'll need to show you something in the ice cells to answer that question," the maester replied gravely as he began to hobble towards the door of the library. "Sam, make sure Lord Tyrion has a torch when we get to the cells. He's going to want it." Tyrion took a torch from the pudgy boy, who offered to help lead Maester Aemon to Castle Black's dungeon, the prison cells made of ice that were carved into the Wall itself. Tyrion had spent enough time with the King to be accustomed to cryptic phrases and secrecy, but he found it a refreshing change of pace that the old maester was actually willing to show him what he was talking about.

It had grown dark. The courtyard of the castle was nearly empty. Each step that they took along the wooden balcony caused the boards to creak eerily. Tyrion wanted to make small talk, but found his words caught in his throat. He could not see Maester Aemon's face, but every now and then Samwell would look back at him with a frightened expression, his own torch-bearing arm quivering somewhat every time he did so. _The boy is terrified._ Tyrion's own heart began to pound. He tightened his grip on his torch. His mind began to race, thinking of what could possibly be in that cell. _A young giant, perhaps,_ he thought. _It's not impossible that they could still survive beyond the Wall._ He told himself it was probably nothing, that the maester was making a mountain out of a molehill. For some reason he did not find that convincing.

After what seemed like an endless trek, they approached the ice cells. Maester Aemon extended a hand to each cell, reaching out and using his sense of touch to keep count. One. Two. Three. Tyrion just wanted him to stop, to say he had reached his destination. He cursed himself for feeling like a child in the face of whatever was waiting for him. Finally, the old maester stopped. He turned toward the very last cell and motioned for Tyrion to approach.

"There he is," he said. Tyrion found himself somewhat confused. There was nothing in the cell but a small jar. Maester Aemon withdrew some keys from his pocket and opened the door. He looked towards the pudgy boy on his arm.

"You don't want to bring it out here, do you Sam?" The boy shook his head vehemently at the maester's question. Based on the look on Samwell's face, Tyrion was amazed he hadn't pissed his pants.

"You'll have to go in to get a look at it then, Lord Tyrion," Maester Aemon said matter-of-factly. Tyrion gritted his teeth and turned back to the old man.

"What am I looking at, exactly?"

"Waymar Royce. Or what's left of him. You might have found it strange that Lord Commander Mormont did not greet you upon your arrival. That was because after tending to his wounds I wouldn't allow it. This _thing_ attacked him in his chambers and he barely escaped with his life." Tyrion stepped into the cell, slowly approaching the jar. Each step he took seemed to reverberate throughout the cell, and he found it hard to keep his grip on the torch. His heart was pounding in his ears. He felt cold, colder than he had any right to be even when surrounded by ice.

"Don't pick it up, Lord Tyrion!" Maester Aemon shouted after him. "If you break the jar it would be a lot of trouble to get it back into another one!" Tyrion finally reached the jar and squatted down to get a good look at it. In it was a severed hand. Slowly, cautiously, he reached out and pressed his fingers against the glass. The hand leapt towards him, causing him to stumble and fall. The torch went out. The jar inched in his direction as the hand pushed it forward, animated by some unnatural power. The cold grew worse. Tyrion scrambled back the way that he came, slipping and sliding on the icy floor until he quickly made his way out of the cell. Maester Aemon slammed the door shut. The hand had stopped moving.

"It felt your warmth," he said.

"That's Waymar Royce?!" Tyrion asked.

"That's what they turned him into," Maester Aemon replied. "That's what they'll turn us all into unless we can give Prince Aegon the time he needs to become the Prince that was Promised. That is the fate of all Seven kingdoms unless the Watch can truly be the shield that guards the Realms of Men." Tyrion shook his head. He did not want to believe it. Years of learning and education had told him that what he had seen couldn't be real. But everything he had experienced had told him it was. He knew no book he had read would provide him any solace if he felt that freezing cold again.

"I suppose the Wildling threat is quite serious," he half-stammered. "Let's return to the library. I think we may have a lot more work on our hands than just rebuilding the Watch." Maester Aemon allowed himself a small smile.

"A giant indeed."


	5. V Catelyn

**Catelyn**

As the sun's rays streamed through the window of her room and gently caressed her face, Catelyn awoke with a start. She barely had time to take stock of her surroundings before she saw her husband getting helped into a shirt of mail by the servants. He buckled Ice to his side and gave her a resigned look, as if he were about to ride off to war.

"Ned, what is it? Are we in danger? What's he done, Ned?!" Catelyn couldn't stand the thought of being trapped in her own home again. Thoughts of the Siege of Riverrun came rushing back to her. Thoughts of being hemmed in, surrounded by Lannister men cheering the name of Rhaegar Targaryen. Of Gregor Clegane riding towards her father. There had hardly been a moment then she hadn't held Robb close to her breast, but all her children were too big for that now. _They've grown too big for their mother to defend them._ It had hurt seeing her husband return with a bastard in his arms, but that feeling could never have compared to her relief at knowing the Siege had been lifted. As her husband had taken her deep into the heart of the North, farther and farther away from the horrors of the war and her family's defeat, she had slowly begun to believe they were safe. Ned had seemed cold at first, as he had on their wedding night, but slowly she had grown warm to the man as she saw how he took care of his family, and how he protected his kingdom.

This had made the King's visit feel like a shock, a cruel reminder of the tense political situation that belied the comfort and happiness she had finally found at Winterfell. Rhaegar Targaryen and his Lannister pets had returned, tearing everything she had known asunder. The man who ruined her House stood before her as an honored guest, and he claimed Ned's bastard as his own. Guest right was supposed to go both ways, ensuring no harm would come to the hosts as well, but if King Rhaegar truly practiced sorcery like the septons of White Harbor said he would have no regard for the laws of gods and men. She looked at Ned with a pleading gaze. She needed to know her family would be safe.

"We'll be fine, Cat," he assured her. "A show of strength, nothing more. I just need to give Rhaegar a proper farewell. Did you have another nightmare?"

She had. She had dreamt that Rhaegar had executed scores of men in Winterfell for cheering 'King in the North' along with the Greatjon. She had seen Rhaegar's handsome face distorted, his eyes bulged, his nostrils flared, and his lips curling upward into a snarl that showed sharp teeth clinched in anger. She had dreamt that he laughed wildly as he went about it, stopping to look at her with a savage grin on his face, only to remind her that the man who passes the sentence must swing the sword. She had seen enough of war in her youth to know what a man being beheaded looked like, and it was not hard for her imagination to picture Rhaegar slaughtering Lord Umber in that manner. Rhaegar would swing his sword down on the Greatjon's neck, but he could not cut all the way through. The lord of Last Hearth would roar in pain as it would take several more brutal hacks just to sever his head completely. The King would be panting when he finished, his once smooth hair matted and disheveled. But it was just a dream. Ned had reminded her that heading to Moat Cailin with so many of his bannermen had served another purpose. With so many guests already, he told the King, he would not be able to accommodate a large royal party. Allegedly Rhaegar had taken the hint and sent some of his men back. No, once she calmed herself she knew Rhaegar would not try anything while in Winterfell. He may have been mad, but he was not stupid.

"Ned, how could you agree to that marriage for Robb?" She blurted out. In the past they had approached these kinds of subjects more delicately, but the King's visit had been trying on their own marriage, first with the revelation that Ned had lied to her for so many years, then when it had been decided that _another_ Targaryen would be brought to Winterfell to replace the one that was leaving. She had been there when it was decided that the Pact of Ice and Fire would be honored, of course, and she had done her best to politely voice her objections. She had reminded Rhaegar and her husband that women had a place in matchmaking, and that she could say as a woman that a princess accustomed to life in the capital would find little joy in the North, and that an unhappy marriage could hardly be the basis of a lasting peace. But Rhaegar had countered by offering a reprieve on royal taxes, and though there appeared to be a bit more haggling that had been all it took. Her husband was not greedy, but he knew enough of his bannermen were, and enough of them resented paying tithes to King's Landing. Slowly she got out of bed and began brushing her hair. She knew she would be expected to see the royal party off too. _Good riddance_ , she thought.

"It's a good match, Cat. It comes with a good dowry and gives us a good hostage," he said. After a pause, he went on. "We're not in a position to turn it down just yet."

"Then when will we be?" she shot back, though still focused on her hair. "You said yourself Moat Cailin is nearly ready."

"But the Westhold isn't, and neither Bran nor Rickon are of an age to take command of either one."

"Why does it have to be them? The Cassels have proven themselves—"

"But they aren't Starks," Ned said solemnly. "Cat, the dragons are losing the North bit by bit. Rhaegar knows it, and so do we. War will come, but when it does we can't be in the same position your father was." The brush stopped moving. Catelyn looked at her husband, horrified. Ned's face grew pale; he knew he had touched a nerve.

"I'm sorry," he told her, his voice laden with remorse. "I just meant…our bannermen can't be waiting to turn on us if we look weak, like the Freys did at the Trident. They have to look to us first for protection. They have to see our family on the battlefield before their own. They have to see us as the North, Cat, and as equals to any house south of the Neck, even those that put crowns on their heads."

"And a royal marriage will help with that," she said sullenly. Slowly, she went back to readying herself for the day, the brush moving through her long auburn hair more and more smoothly.

"Yes Cat, it will. All giving us Daenerys does is remind the North how much the dragons need us. Her children with Robb will still be raised at Winterfell, they'll be taught to put the North first. They'll still be Starks, just like Jon." Cat scoffed.

"And yet _Jaehaerys_ is going south, and you're letting him." Catelyn thought it a good time to remind her husband of his nephew's true name. Although learning the truth of his parentage had made her see the boy somewhat differently, she could not bring herself to trust him. Cat may have been taking her husband to task for letting him go, but she knew that if Jon relented and asked to stay at Winterfell for a while longer she would speak to Ned against it. Even if he weren't a bastard he was still a Targaryen, born from the passion between the son of a madman and a girl who refused to learn her place. He may have been family, but both his blood and his upbringing had given him reason to work against her children.

"I don't think Jon will stay there long," Ned told her, opening the door for the servants who entered their chambers with a bow, several dresses, and a selection of jewelry and accessories for Catelyn to choose from. She chose a simple but lovely gown in the colors of her husband's house, with an exquisite wolf pelt to wrap around her shoulders as protection against the cold. She also motioned for earrings of silver with rubies and sapphires to evoke the Tully colors.

"It will take time to make Winterfell truly fit for a princess," he continued sardonically. "By the time we're ready to receive her I wouldn't be surprised if Jon volunteered to escort Daenerys north with that fellowship of his."

"And when he does?" Reminding Ned of his hypocrisy was one thing, but the possibility of Jon returning to Winterfell was something she wanted to guard against. "What if he wants his own keep? Will you give it to him? He was born of passion; what if he deflowers your son's betrothed on the way to her own wedding?" Ned scowled, waving off the servants who had now finished helping him prepare. Now it was she who had touched a nerve.

"Cat, when have you ever seen the boy inflamed with passion? I suspect if Jon does not join the Night's Watch I can find a place for him. I've spoken with Rhaegar about resettling the Gift with lords who would be subject to the Watch. For all his faults he understands how badly we've neglected them. He seemed amenable to the idea." Catelyn had now fully slipped on her dress and sent the servants away, beginning to powder her face. It was a vanity she rarely had time for, but she could not stand the thought of being upstaged by Cersei Lannister once again.

"So you would give the dragons a second front from which to wage war on us?" Eddard seemed unfazed by this question, pointed though it may have been.

"Whether Rhaegar likes it or not, if he agrees to the proposal then it will mostly be Northmen there anyway. I've already mentioned it to Lord Commander Mormont, and it's what he would prefer. Besides, how many Southrons do you think could survive up there?" Ned chuckled slightly and despite herself Catelyn joined him. Cersei Lannister's reaction when she had mentioned summer snows had been priceless.

Finally ready, Catelyn moved towards the door of their chambers, mentally preparing herself to face the day and the Targaryens. Ned caught her hand. Before she could react he pulled her in close and whispered in her ear.

"Cat, I know this hasn't been easy for you," he said. "It's been hard on me too, seeing them here. But I promise you this. They will never take from us what we have built here, together. I love our home, I love our children, and I love you. And I will defend you all until my last breath."

"I'll hold you to that promise, Lord Stark." She disentangled herself from his embrace, a faint hint of a smile on her lips. She wasn't ready to forgive him yet, but she was glad to see him making an effort.

Together they left their chambers and headed out into Winterfell's main courtyard. Rhaegar and his family were there, dressed and ready to depart. It wasn't a particularly chilly morning by Northern standards, but the King did not seem to take well to the cold. He looked resplendent as usual, in the black and red plate he had ridden in with and with a circlet of Valyrian steel about his head, but he was noticeably shivering and his lips seemed a pale shade of blue. Cersei and Daeron stood about impatiently while the wheelhouse was being prepared, and Visenya and Baelor were looking about with children's curiosity as the royal party prepared to take their leave. Ser Barristan stood at the ready, the aged knight standing silently behind his king.

Cat's own children were ushered out by Septa Mordane in short order, and she was relieved to see they all looked presentable. Robb looked quite dashing in a grey and white doublet, much like his brothers. Sansa looked lovely as always in a green dress she had almost never worn, but a blushing look she sent Prince Daeron was enough to explain it. She had become somewhat infatuated with the Targaryen prince since his arrival here, and although he retained the silver-blonde hair and countenance of his father, he nonetheless had his mother's green eyes. Although in a way that was a trait of his father's as well, for it was said Rhaegar had coveted his father's throne long before the Mad King was ready to surrender it. Looking to Arya, Cat was relieved to see that her youngest daughter was wearing a dress at all. Septa Mordane had even managed to keep Arya from dirtying herself on the way to greet the royal party. Catelyn's faith in the Seven was not what it used to be, but she thanked them for the small miracle before her. The Northmen who had chosen to accompany Jon were there as well. The Smalljon, Domeric Bolton, Eddard Karstark, and Jorah Mormont were all waiting and ready with their retainers, along with a small portion of the Stark household guard Ned had decided to send south with Jon.

"Jaehaerys was not with your children, Lord Eddard?" asked the King.

"He asked if he could pay his respects to his mother in the Crypts before he left, Your Grace," Ned informed him. "I imagine he's still there now." The King sighed and turned a melancholy gaze towards the Lord of Winterfell.

"We must be off soon," he said flatly. "I will go and fetch him." Cersei scowled at this, and Daeron seemed upset at the prospect as well.

"It may be best to let him have his time alone with her, Your Grace. You and I knew Lyanna, but the boy never had the opportunity."

"I would like to see her as well, Lord Eddard. One last time." Ned clenched his teeth at this, but relaxing he exhaled and looked at the King. Jon's fellowship was staring at him expectantly.

"The Crypts of Winterfell are for House Stark to mourn our dead, Your Grace. Please, I would not violate the peace of your own ancestors beneath the Sept of Baelor." This time it was Rhaegar who clenched his teeth.

"She was my wife, Lord Eddard."

"Aye, but she was my sister for far longer." The King's nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed.

"Very well, Lord Stark. We shall fetch him together, but I shall not enter the Crypts." As the two headed off together with Ser Barristan in tow, a long silence followed as those who remained in the courtyard found themselves with little to say. Catelyn realized she had been left in a very awkward position. Thankfully, she was not the one who would have to make small talk.

"We have been much honored by your visit, Your Grace," a red-faced Sansa said to Daeron.

"What a kind thing to say, sweetling," the Queen cut in. Catelyn doubted her daughter had noticed the displeasure in Cersei's voice.

"Th-thank you, Your Grace," Sansa went on nervously. "It truly was a pleasure to receive you all as guests…it's been wonderful, just like one of the songs."

"I take it you have a fondness for the songs?" asked Cersei haughtily. When all of this was over Cat knew she would have to explain to Sansa just what the Queen was doing. Sansa nodded meekly in response to the question. Cersei smiled in a manner that to the untrained eye would be seen as polite before continuing.

"Lovely. What a lovely daughter you have, Lady Catelyn. How old are you, sweetling?" Sansa's eyes were on Daeron, but Cat noticed the boy had already lost interest.

"Thirteen, Your Grace."

"Lovely. You're very tall for thirteen. And still growing I take it?" Sansa nodded.

"Tell me, Lady Catelyn, has your daughter bled yet?" Thankfully before Cat could answer the Queen's question Ned and Rhaegar returned with Jon. The boy looked miserable, but that was nothing new. _At least he'll be miserable somewhere else_.

Jon found a horse saddled and waiting for him. Before he could mount it, Robb walked over to him.

"Next time I see you, you'll be all in red and black," he said.

"Black always was my color," laughed Jon. Prince Daeron looked on his father as if Rhaegar had just slapped him, and Catelyn remembered enough of her history to know why. Daeron usurped by a black dragon at his father's urging. As amusing as she found it, she did her best to remain impassive.

"Farewell, Stark," Jon said warmly to his cousin.

"And you, Targaryen." The two embraced as the other Stark children approached to say their goodbyes. Bran and Rickon hugged their cousin, both trying to keep a stiff upper lip in the face of what clearly a sad day for them. Arya didn't bother. She cried openly and buried her face in Jon's doublet, allowing her embrace to dishevel her hair. Catelyn sighed. She had tried so hard to keep them from growing attached to someone she knew would only hurt them in the end, but she had only had any success with Sansa. The girl approached Jon slowly and curtsied politely.

"Farewell, Your Grace," she said more warmly than Cat would have liked.

"And you, My Lady," Jon replied. Ned approached him last, bending down so he could look the boy in the eye.

"Remember what I said in the crypts, Jon. You'll always be welcome here." The Targaryen boy turned his sullen gaze to Catelyn, lingering there a moment before turning back to Ned. Cat realized she had no idea what she had looked like to him, or how she herself had even felt under his gaze, but she gained some insight into the boy's thoughts when she heard the emptiness in his reply to her husband.

"Thank you, Lord Eddard. I'll remember that." The goodbyes that followed were nowhere near as tearful nor as emotional. The Starks and their retainers maintained courtly courtesy in bidding farewell to the Targaryens, and the royal party returned the favor. Rhaegar and Ser Barristan mounted their horses, and Cersei ushered her children into the wheelhouse. Jon was about to step into the saddle when Ghost ran up behind him. The dire wolf was already as large as some the hounds Farlen kept in the kennels. Cersei stopped in her tracks and turned to the King.

"My love, surely that beast isn't coming with us?" Jon also looked pleadingly at his father, but Rhaegar had eyes for neither of them. He regarded Ghost with an intrigued expression. He stared into the animal's eyes contemplatively. It made no sound, but just by looking at it Catelyn could tell it too was begging to remain with its master. A small smile played about Rhaegar's face before disappearing.

"Of course it is," he said authoritatively. "I would have it no other way. In fact, this beast is under royal protection. Any who harm it will face the same penalty as a poacher in our woods." Jon smiled.

"Thank you, Your Grace," he added warmly. The King simply nodded and turned his horse towards the gate of the castle. The rest of the royal party followed, slowly trickling out. It seemed to Catelyn like an eternity as she waited for them to be gone. As everyone else who had assembled to greet them began to filter out of the courtyard, Cat turned to her husband.

"Ned, I've been thinking," she said quietly. "You spoke of needing to make 'preparations' so that Winterfell could be worthy of a princess."

"What did you have in mind?" he asked her.

"It occurred to me that one excuse you could give King's Landing is that any princess would deserve a number of ladies in waiting, as Daenerys no doubt has in the capital. Should we not assemble our own Northern ladies for her, to help her grow more accustomed to our ways?"

"Naturally," Ned agreed, sounding somewhat intrigued.

"But of course only the best would do for a princess of royal blood," Cat went on facetiously. "I would have to select them myself as a Southron lady who knows what must be done to adapt to the North, and that would take a great deal of time. You should advise the King that we won't be ready until then." Eddard nodded, seeming to like where she was going.

"Very well, you have my leave to begin your search," he said. "Whenever you think it most prudent, of course." Catelyn smiled and embraced her husband. She hated deceiving him. The truth of the matter was that the appearance of Rhaegar had been far more trying than she would ever admit. Despite all the courtesies, it felt as though lions and dragons had come to her home once more to take everything she held dear, just as they had when she watched the Mountain murder her father. This time they had robbed her of her faith in the future, and to an extent of her trust in her husband. Next time they might take even more. Which was why there would be no next time. So as Catelyn removed herself from Eddard's embrace and followed him back to their chambers, she swore an oath to herself that Rhaegar and his bastard would be the last Targaryens to ever set foot in Winterfell.


	6. VI The Prince of Winterhall (Part I)

**The Prince of Winterhall (Part I)**

 _In a way, he felt free. The stone lair he had been in before had kept him from the scents on the wind and the sounds of the open country. Whenever night fell he would leap and bound through the fields after whatever scent he found enticing. Very rarely would he see his prey, but he did not rely on sight alone to hunt, and the signs of them were everywhere. He knew he still had to give the deer a wide berth, for he was alone and without his pack, but rabbits and squirrels were there in abundance, and what they lacked in sustenance they made up for in the thrill of chasing them down. He savored the taste of their blood in his jaws as he tore into them. There was something about live prey that was far more satisfying than the burnt meats he was fed during the day._

 _He was alone and without his pack. His brothers and sisters had remained behind in the stone lair to the North. There were times he thought he could hear them calling on the wind, but the further he traveled by day those calls grew fainter and fainter. A part of him wanted to respond, to look to the moon and let out a great howl, but it was not his way. They knew that as well. It felt strange to be without them, but he knew it would have been stranger to be without the boy. They understood one another in a way not even his brothers could fully comprehend. This was where he belonged. He knew he was tired. He returned to the boy's side and lay down beside him._

 _He was alone and without his pack, but he had the boy._

Jon woke to see Ghost curled up at his side. He gently placed a hand on the wolf's head and gave it a slight rub. Ghost lifted his head to look at him, and his red eyes returned an appreciative gaze. John had seen Sansa talking to her dire wolf, brushing her fur and calling her Lady, gushing about how good she was, but none of that was necessary between him and Ghost. Jon smiled and rose from the ground on which he had slept the night before. He had asked the King if he could sleep out in the open during their journey to the capital, and Rhaegar had readily agreed. Although the Queen had supported Jon vocally on that score (while expressly forbidding Baelor and Visenya from joining him), that had not seemed to have influenced her husband's decision. Jon hated the fact that even after that long talk in Lord Eddard's solar and weeks on the road together, his father's motives remained opaque to him. The King seemed to want to cultivate a familiarity with Jon while at the same time keeping his distance. Rhaegar had told him that he would like his half-brother Aegon. Supposedly everyone liked his half-brother Aegon. But Aegon had not nearly torn the Realm apart over a war for his mother, brought him into the world, and then ignored him for fifteen years. _I did not think you had survived_. The words had been sincere, but they had sounded strange. They were laden with emotion, but Jon could not tell if it was the emotion of a father who had finally found his son. There was so little he understood about his father and his family. It made him wonder how much he understood about himself. Jon began to get ready for the continued journey south, putting on a new tunic and fastening a black cloak about his shoulders. He brushed some hair out of his face and began to roll up the furs he had slept in. He could not stop thinking about that conversation.

"Awake at last, Your Grace." That is, until Jorah Mormont interrupted his train of thought. The Lord of Bear Island and the rest of Jon's fellowship seemed to have dressed already and had begun breaking their fast. Jorah took a bite of a roll in his hand and threw another one at Jon, who caught it and bit into it. It was hard and tasted somewhat stale, but he knew that it would help provide the nourishment he needed for the long day's ride ahead of him. Jorah smirked as he saw Jon's difficulty in chewing and swallowing it.

"It goes down easier if you have something to drink," he told him. "Of course, if you'd rather break your fast with your father's party—"

"No, I think there'll be plenty of time for southern comforts once we reach the capital, Lord Jorah," Jon replied. "I had best enjoy the North and her charms while I still can." Jorah laughed at that.

"Considering we're almost out of the North now, Your Grace, I suppose I can't blame you," he said. "We should pass by Moat Cailin today." Jorah motioned for Jon to follow him to the small fire where the rest of the fellowship was seated. The Smalljon seemed to be much like his father, already boasting about something as he took a swig of what Jon assumed was ale from his mug. Domeric Bolton must have just put himself together for the morning, and would have seemed to be listening intently were it not for the disinterested look in his eyes. Eddard Karstark sat sharpening his axe and occasionally grunting in assent whenever the Smalljon made said something that didn't sound too outlandish. Ser Martyn Cassel was there as well, named for his father who died at the Tower of Joy. _Who had died protecting me._ He had been part of the group of Stark men Lord Eddard had sent south. Jon bowed his head respectfully when he saw him. Words could not hope to repay the debt he owed Ser Martyn for what his father had done. Jon sat beside Ser Martyn, who seemed willing enough to make a space for him, and decided he would try to join the conversation.

"Ser Martyn, I hear we'll be passing by Moat Cailin today. Are you looking forward to seeing your cousin?"

"Aye, Jory's been too long in the swamps, I think. Last letter I received said he had caught some sort of illness, but that some crannogmen healers gave him a brew that seemed to be working."

"I'm not surprised," Domeric said. "I've heard living in such bad airs has forced them to learn much about the body, more even than the maesters. They know every plant in the Neck that can save a man's life…and every one that can end it."

"Bah! Poison is a woman's weapon!" roared the Smalljon. "It's no wonder you never see the crannogmen on the field of battle!"

"My…uncle said winning battles doesn't win you the war," Jon added. "And with the crannogmen he was right. The Freys lost a third of their strength in the Neck when they tried to push up the Causeway, and the crannogmen never met them in battle once."

"A move as foolhardy as turning on our fathers at the Trident was clever," said the Smalljon. "Not that those losses mean much to the Freys. They say Lord Walder is the only man who could field an entire army out of his breeches."

"At his age it's a miracle he can even do that!" declared Eddard Karstark. The rest of the fellowship shared a laugh in agreement.

"Lord Mormont, will the South hold any memories for you?" Domeric Bolton asked as he turned his attention to the Young Bear. "I've heard you won great glory in King Balon's War."

"Only because that fool Victarion Greyjoy wore full plate on the open seas!" Jon Umber burst in. "All Jorah had to do was push him overboard and he died drowning!"

"Had you ever been boarded by Ironmen you would know causing one to lose his footing on the deck of a ship is no easy task." Jorah retorted. "And it's not as if I let the sea do all the work. Longclaw gave him a few good scratches before it came to all that." Lord Mormont patted the hilt of the Valyrian steel bastard sword at his side. The sword of House Mormont, it was a magnificent weapon with the head of a bear as the pommel. Jon could not help but notice how the entire fellowship eyed it jealously.

"Still, it's not like what I did there will be remembered," Jorah went on. "They don't sing songs about you unless you're as pretty as the Kingslayer."

"You killed one bloody Greyjoy, Mormont!" chided Eddard Karstark. "It's not like you hacked your way through the garrison at Pyke and cut King Balon to pieces!"

"I think I'll take a little less glory if it means keeping both hands!"

"Lord Eddard told me stories about the Siege of Pyke," Jon said coldly. "He said Jaime Lannister fought like a man possessed. He and the rest of the besiegers were never less than ten paces behind him. By the time he got to the Seastone Chair he said he saw Ser Jaime seated on it in front of King Balon's body. Not that he could tell it was King Balon at first."

"That's war, Your Grace," Jorah spoke simply. "Especially when men fight with something to prove like Ser Jaime did. They say failing to protect Princess Elia weighed heavily on him after the Lannisters took hold of King's Landing."

"He couldn't save the Mad King from himself either, I've heard!" added Martyn Cassel. "No wonder he was the first man discharged from the Kingsguard. He was a lot better at killing kings than he was at keeping them safe!"

"They say he rules the Ironborn well now," said Domeric. "Or at least my father does. I'm told he keeps peaceful land and a quiet people." Jon shuddered at this.

"You know, Ser Martyn, it may not be wise to get into the habit of criticizing the Queen's brother and the son of the King's Hand," the heir to the Dreadfort continued. "The Lord Protector of the Iron Islands lost his left hand, not his right. Who knows, mayhaps he'll catch wind of our talk and come out from Pyke to skewer us." If this was meant as a joke, no one was laughing.

"I think my namesake your uncle had the right of it, Your Grace." Eddard Karstark. "Punish the Greyjoys for killing our men, and then be done with it."

"Losing a father was hard enough, I'm just glad your uncle avenged the death of mine own," Ser Martyn told Jon.

"Aye, Ser Rodrik was a good man," said Jorah. "He would have made a good castellan of the Westhold."

"To Ser Rodrik!" Jon lifted his mug up high, and was pleased to see the rest of the fellowship do the same. "To every man of House Cassel that fought and died for the North! May their sacrifices never be forgotten!" All drank deeply at that, and Jon was pleased to see a look of respect from Ser Martyn.

"Jaehaerys!" all turned and looked to see the King riding towards them upon his black destrier. Gone was the plate he had worn when he left Winterfell. Instead, Rhaegar wore what had to be some of the most ornate riding leathers Jon had ever seen, died black and red with three-headed dragons stitched into them. The King's pale blonde hair flew in the wind, almost obscuring his handsome features. As Rhaegar pushed a few strands out of his face, Jon was surprised to see that even this far south the King seemed to be ill-suited to the cold. While he was not shivering his lips were still a faint shade of blue.

"Are your men ready to depart?"

"Yes, Your Grace," Jon answered.

"Then let us be off," Rhaegar said, flashing a rare but charming smile. "I go not a day without my wife's complaining, but I think I will be glad to hear the end of her thoughts on travel." Eddard Karstark snorted in amusement at this, and the rest of Jon's fellowship got up and made for their horses.

"When you are mounted, come find me at the head of the procession," the King told Jon. "We have much to discuss." Jon finished his second roll and took a swig from his mug to wash it down before climbing on to his horse. Jorah rode up beside him and gave him a quizzical look.

"I take it you won't be riding with the men today, Your Grace?"

"As much as I'd like to, Lord Jorah, the King has summoned me to ride alongside him."

"A great honor, riding beside a King."

"I'll rejoin the men when His Grace and I are done talking," Jon said. "Shouldn't take that long, we usually don't have much to say to one another." With that Jon tried to smile and took off towards the head of the procession. He looked for Ghost and saw that the dire wolf had already begun to look for the day's game. _Good hunting_ , he thought _._ It did not take long for him to catch up to the King. For all Rhaegar's talk of readying the Northmen it was many of the southerners who lagged behind. As he passed the Queen's wheelhouse, he could have sworn he saw an angry glare through one of the windows, though he could only guess to whom it belonged. Finally he saw the King, who was near the front of the procession alongside Ser Barristan.

"Your Grace," Jon greeted the King deferentially as his horse trotted up next to his.

"Ser Barristan, keep your distance," Rhaegar ordered. "This is not for you to hear." The old knight bowed in the saddle before slowing his horse, allowing Jon and the King to continue riding in relative isolation.

"Where is the wolf?" the King asked. Jon shrugged before responding.

"Nearby, Your Grace. He'll be back when we stop for rest."

"And how do you know this?"

"I just know, Your Grace. Ghost and I…we have an understanding."

"I see." The King was clearly intrigued. "Tell me, do you ever dream of Ghost? Do you ever dream of walking about in his skin?" The question caught Jon off guard. He had had dreams like that before, but he didn't understand how it could be that Rhaegar was aware of them.

"I suppose I have, Your Grace."

"And how vivid are these dreams? Can you remember scents from them? Can you remember taste?" Jon was beginning to find himself unnerved.

"I…suppose so, Your Grace." The King smiled warmly at him, as though he had just received some piece of good news.

"Thank you for indulging my curiosity, Jaehaerys. I had been reading a book about the close ties some men can form with their pets, and I wanted to see if the maester who wrote it was truly knowledgeable on the subject."

"Was he?" Jon asked.

"Decidedly not. But there are other matters we must discuss."

"And what would those be, Your Grace?"

"Those of your seat and betrothal. I think somewhere in the North would be fitting for the former, don't you agree?" Jon nodded.

"Would I be one of Robb's bannerman, then?"

"No, I would not subject you to such an indignity. Your lands and titles would be like that of the Prince of Summerhall of old. Your uncle seems determined to raise castles along the coast, and I think he can be prevailed upon to grant one to you." _Those castles are being built to keep Targaryens out_ , thought Jon.

"So I'm to be the Prince of Winterhall, Your Grace?" Jon flashed a smile he knew was not as winning as the King's could be. Rhaegar recognized the jape and chuckled musically.

"A fine title. You may jest now but one day I might bestow it on you." For some reason the melancholy with which Jon had come to associate the King had crept back into his voice.

"As for your betrothed," the King continued, "my Master of Laws has sent his daughter to court to wait upon your sister Rhaenys. No doubt he hopes she will catch Aegon's eye. But that match is not to be. Aegon and Rhaenys are for each other. Instead it is you who will wed Margaery Tyrell." Jon knew the name Tyrell from his studies with Maester Luwin. They were the Lords of the Reach, the richest and most bountiful of the Seven Kingdoms. Supposedly they were so proud of their harvests their very sigil was a plant of some kind. It was a better match than he had ever dreamed of.

"Would a southern lady like Margaery Tyrell really want to live in the North, Your Grace? Lady Catelyn always said an unhappy marriage is a poor foundation for an alliance." Rhaegar snorted at this.

"Yes, I have heard her say that before. But the North is not without its charms, Jaehaerys, and I am sure you can make her see that. Winter roses were your mother's favorite; no doubt the Lady Margaery will grow fond of them as well." At the mention of his mother a shadow seemed to pass over the two men, and they both hung their heads in silence. Rhaegar exhaled before turning back to Jon.

"Have you thought what you might take as your sigil? As a personal coat of arms?" Jon shook his head.

"I haven't given it much thought, Your Grace."

"I was thinking a grey dragon upon a white field. The Targaryen sigil in the colors of House Stark. Does that not sound appealing?"

"I can see the appeal, Your Grace," Jon said meekly.

"But you are not convinced. Perhaps you have another suggestion, then?"

"A white wolf on black," Jon told the King, "with eyes of red." Rhaegar nodded sagely.

"You have time to make up your mind. Though I will have the dragon prepared for you."

"Will that be all, Your Grace?" Truthfully Jon was eager to leave the King's presence. He found himself missing the conversation with men he understood, where every word and gesture didn't feel like it had the weight of Seven Kingdoms resting on it.

"I think your Northern friends can wait, Jaehaerys," Rhaegar told him. "We have arrived." Jon looked up and saw Moat Cailin standing defiantly in the distance. The greatest fortress in the North after Winterfell, Lord Eddard had committed himself to rebuilding it after the Rebellion. Jon had been told that when his uncle had started, only three towers had remained from an ancient fortress raised by the First Men, and that none of them had been in good condition. He could still see which ones they were, for they still listed a bit despite the construction which had gone on around them and as he got closer he saw that the stone of which they were composed was more worn. But now twelve more towers had risen up to join them, and a great basalt curtain wall was once again being built around those. It was still smaller than the ancient fort had been, but from what Jon understood the three towers on their own had been enough to hold off an assault when fully manned. This new castle would be nigh impregnable. Supposedly there was even a smaller holdfast being constructed at the source of the Fever River to the West, to prevent any attempt to flank the castle itself. As a boy he had dreamed of being a lord here, of driving off Southron assaults in the name of his father, the Lord of Winterfell. Such dreams seemed even more foolish now than they had then. Jon did not think Lord Eddard would have granted such an important post to his bastard, and he was even less likely to grant it to the son of the man whose armies he wished to keep out.

The royal party decided to stop and rest outside the walls after the Queen complained that there was still too much construction going on inside. Jon and his fellowship were the exception, however, as they entered the busy fortress to greet Ser Martyn's cousin Jory. As they passed through Moat Cailin's main gate, Jon could see the small army of masons and craftsmen hard at work. Ser Jory Cassel received them in what was now the main hall, which though not ornate was large enough to accommodate a party as large as the King's. Ser Jory had already started his meal when they arrived, but rose to greet them, pulling his cousin into a warm embrace and clasping hands with every one of the Northmen who had joined the royal party at Winterfell. Finally, he turned to Jon.

"You Grace," he said politely.

"Jory, you've known me since I was a boy, you needn't stand on ceremony." This seemed to relax Jory a bit. "Please, call me Jon."

"As you wish, lad, though if I may speak plainly things would have been simpler had you remained Ned Stark's bastard." Jon winced at the mention of his bastardy but was able to come out with a smile.

"A few weeks on the road and I think I'm starting to agree with you." Once greetings and pleasantries were exchanged, Jory offered Jon and his fellowship some bowls of stew. Jon thanked him for it and spooned a mouthful to his lips, savoring the warmth of the broth and the taste of the meat and vegetables. _Not as good as raw hare_ , he thought. Conversation soon turned to his talk with the King, and Jon told those around him everything he and Rhaegar had discussed. Well, almost everything. For some reason he felt uncomfortable repeating the King's questions about Ghost.

"I may be a bit biased, Your Grace," the Smalljon said. "But when it comes to a sigil, I think men would be more willing to follow a white wolf than a grey wyrm."

"Grey wyrm? Who would allow themselves to be called something like that?!" Eddard Karstark roared in laughter.

"Perhaps someone who wishes to unnerve his enemies," suggested Domeric.

"You would expect the son of the leech lord to say something like that," japed the Smalljon.

"What I don't understand is why Rhaegar wants to marry you to the Tyrell girl," Jorah mused. "If you're going to come back North, then you need a Northern bride."

"I suppose you're looking for a taker for Dacey?" Eddard Karstark flashed Jorah a lewd grin. "It's not a bad match, Your Grace. I've heard she-bears know how to keep a man warm at night."

"Careful Karstark, it's not wise to cross the only man here with a Valyrian blade," Jorah patted Longclaw and smiled back at Eddard. Jon was glad they were only joking.

"You have to marry Margaery because the King won't let Aegon," speculated Domeric. "He needs the continued support of the Great Houses that helped him win the Rebellion, and marriages are often how that support is retained. But as long as he insists on a betrothal of Rhaenys and Aegon his choices are limited. You'll have to take a southern wife, and it may be for the best that it's Margaery Tyrell. The King could always send you to Dorne to wed Arianne Martell, but she would probably strangle you during the bedding." Jon rose to his feet. Something was wrong.

"I meant no offense, Your Grace," Domeric apologized. "From what I've heard, the Lady Margaery is a great beauty."

"Peace, Domeric, it isn't that," Jon told him. "Lord Jorah, follow me. I think I'll need a man with Valyrian steel at my side." Jorah nodded and followed him as he took off towards the disturbance. He could feel anger, fear, and confusion welling up inside him. The urge to snarl. He just hoped he wasn't too late.


	7. VII The Prince of Winterhall (Part II)

Hey all, thanks for the interest in the story so far. I'll try to answer a few of your questions here.

 **J** pointed out the somewhat precarious legal situation Jon finds himself in as far as inheritance goes. Let's just say it's stable for now, Rhaegar is the king after all, but should something happen to him Jon's status could depend very greatly on whoever takes power.

 **Xemi** I don't know that I'm trying to portray Ned as a good guy so much having Ned think he did the right thing. Given the state of things at court it's understandable a lot of people would want Jon dead, something very much not the case at Winterfell.

 **immortalwizardpirateelf-fan** wanted to know why Rhaegar married Cersei, and that's information concerning that and the "reinforcement" of King's Landing by Lannister forces was something I was going to dole out very slowly. Truth is, not too many people know the whole story.

Both **flayjunior15** and **mcveighreece** have asked if this is a JonxDany story, and honestly it isn't...at least not yet. For the moment I don't have plans to do so, and I wasn't intending to focus too much on the pairings except insofar as they intersect with the politics and intrigue. Though I will say this, Jon has just been told he's going to have an arranged marriage to a beautiful girl from a wealthy and powerful house, which is a way better match than he expected. Given that he's also a teenager I think we know where his initial interests will lie.

 **Theoldones53** wanted to know if Cersei's kids are Rhaegar's, and they are. She was infatuated with him as a child and he wouldn't have cheated on her or called out another woman's name like Lyanna did, so their marriage would have been stable at first. Also, Tywin is in King's Landing and Jaime hasn't been for quite some time, so it's not as though she would have had much opportunity. I haven't described their features much, but they look Targaryen.

* * *

 **The Prince of Winterhall (Part II)  
**

Jon and Jorah ran out of the main hall, past the workers and stonemasons who stopped to look at the source of the commotion. They ran out through Moat Cailin's southern gate, just big enough for a man to pass through. Jon instinctively turned and headed in the direction of the Neck, Jorah in tow. Finally he saw what he had feared. Ghost was snarling at a cowering Daeron, who stood beside Ser Barristan. The knight himself had a sword out, cautiously pointing it toward the dire wolf. Baelor and Visenya were standing off to the side, with little Baelor noticeably crying. Jon felt anger and confusion rush over him as he looked at the scene, as though he could not understand why there was danger. He stared intently at Ghost. The wolf stared back at him and a feeling of relief seemed to wash over them both. Jorah turned to Barristan, hand on the hilt of Longclaw, drawing it just enough that the steel could be seen glinting in the midday sun.

"Step away from the wolf, Ser, he poses no threat to the boy." Ghost had already padded over silently to where Jon stood and sat down beside him. Ser Barristan had seemed conflicted before, but now that Ghost sat beside another prince he looked genuinely confused as to what to do.

"Kill the beast, Ser Barristan! I command it!" Daeron barked. "You're a better swordsman than this savage, you're a Knight of the Kingsguard!"

"You've done your duty, Ser. The prince is safe," Jorah reminded the old knight. "Besides, isn't Prince Jon's wolf under royal protection?" Ser Barristan nodded sagely at that and sheathed his blade.

"But he bit me!" whined Daeron.

"Only because you hit us for playing with him!" Visenya shouted back. Daeron gave her an angry glare and stormed off.

"Father will hear about this!" he shouted before turning to Jon. "As will my mother, the Queen." Ghost snarled again and Jon was ready to fall upon Daeron, but Jorah placed a hand upon his shoulder and both the boy and the wolf calmed down. Visenya took Baelor by the hand and walked over to Jon.

"It really was all Daeron's fault," she whispered to Jon before looking at Ghost. "He's really a good doggie. He was nice to me and Baelor." Jon nodded and smiled warmly at his half-sister. Ghost returned an affectionate gaze.

"Thank you, Your Grace" he said.

"You don't have to call me that, Jae! You're a prince!" Jon suppressed the urge to chuckle. _If only it were that simple_. He bowed politely and took his leave of Ser Barristan and the children, returning with Jorah to his own party. He barely had time to tell them what had happened before a page approached them in the livery of House Targaryen.

"I'm here to inform His Grace that he is to attend a meeting held by the King and Queen to ascertain the truth of an accusation," he stated flatly. Jon groaned, before rising to his feet. He cast a weary glance towards his fellowship.

"Time to answer for my crimes," he said sarcastically. Eddard Karstark snorted at this.

"If I may speak freely, Your Grace, I think we should all come with you," Domeric suggested. "Prince Daeron and his Lannister family should be reminded that they are still in the North." Jon nodded in agreement before turning to Jory Cassel.

"Ser Jory, as our host, would you care to join us as well?" The castellan of Moat Cailin smiled at that.

"With pleasure, Jon." The entire entourage left the main hall and made their way to the large pavilion that had been erected so that the Rhaegar could hold a kind of court even while on the road. The Targaryen guard who stood in front of the entrance flaps was hesitant to allow so many Northmen entrance, but after exchanging a reassuring glance with Jorah, Jon stared intently at the man, reminding him of his status.

"You should stand aside, Ser," he said. "I think the King wants this matter resolved quickly. I don't think he would be pleased if he found out you were delaying my arrival." The guard begrudgingly stepped out of the way of Jon and his party and they all spilled into the pavilion. Rhaegar and his wife sat on a raised dais, surrounded by various onlookers and hangers on who parted to allow Jon to approach the King. The crowd murmured at the sight of Ghost, who moved silently alongside his master, red eyes fixed on Rhaegar. Daeron stood beside his mother, pretending to wince while a maester fawned over his wound. A short, unassuming man in the simple clothing of the crannogmen stood at the ready with what appeared to be a poultice of some kind, shaking his head wearily at the sight. _No doubt he has a better remedy_ , thought Jon. He looked the King, who regarded him with a passive, unreadable expression. Rhaegar had always seemed fond of Ghost, or at least intrigued enough to keep something from happening to him, but in that moment, surrounded by courtiers and sitting beside his wife, who had placed a hand on his and looked every bit a queen, Jon wasn't sure whose side he would be on. He drew strength from Ghost, who seemed unfazed by the situation. Jon was just glad one of them wasn't nervous.

"You see, my love? The Northmen know only force. You ask them to speak to the truth of a simple matter and they come armed and ready for war," Cersei said disdainfully.

"My friends just happened to carry weapons, as do many travelers on the road, Your Grace," Jon replied, summoning courage he didn't realize he had. He thought for a moment before continuing. "Is that the right title, Your Grace? I'm just a lad from the North with no knowledge of courtly matters. Tell me, what does Prince Aegon call you?" Murmurs and at least one gasp could be heard throughout the crowd. Cersei, to her credit, kept her composure.

"'Your Grace' or 'My Queen' will do," she said. Looking to Daeron, she smiled sweetly before continuing.

"Go on, my prince, tell us what happened." Daeron stood up, feigning another wince as the crannogman rolled his eyes. He told those assembled about how he had simply been walking alongside the castle walls when he saw a savage beast attacking his siblings. He had rushed to their defense, but the monster had still bitten him. Ser Barristan was able to keep the creature at bay until Jon (Daeron noticeably refused to call him anything that would suggest a connection to House Targaryen) had come and as if by some dark magic called the wolf to heel. Jon gritted his teeth at this. He didn't know what was more infuriating, that Daeron was lying or that he might get away with it.

"As I told you, my love. A savage beast has no place in the royal party," Cersei pronounced, staring superciliously at Jon. "The beast must be put out of its misery before it can do your children any more harm." More than the Queen's he felt Ghost's eyes on him. There was an expectation there, a demand that he defend the wolf in a situation beyond its understanding. It was oddly empowering.

"Savage beasts?" he asked. "I may not know as much family history as my younger brother, but did our family not once tame dragons?" Rhaegar's interest seemed piqued by this.

"Ser Barristan, can you confirm Prince Daeron's tale?" asked the King. The old knight shook his head.

"I only arrived in time to see the Prince call for aid, Your Grace. Besides, I do not believe it my place to become involved in this dispute." This response seemed to displease Rhaegar greatly, so he turned to Jon.

"Tell it true, Jaehaerys. When you arrived on the scene, how was the wolf behaving? Could you tell how it felt?" The Queen looked confused by this next question, as did Daeron.

"He was confused and angry, Your Grace," Jon told him. "He didn't understand why Ser Barristan was threatening him." Rhaegar seemed to allow himself a small smile.

"My love, you cannot take a child's opinion on his pet over the account of your own son!" As the King pursed his lips in frustration Jon realized the Queen had misplayed her hand. _I'm his son too_.

"You needn't do so, Your Grace," Jon interjected. "You could ask your daughter what happened. She tells it differently than Prince Daeron." Rhaegar raised an eyebrow at this and looked to Ser Barristan, who nodded before he could be asked the question. Rhaegar then faced the Queen with an exasperated look upon his face.

"Yes, where is my daughter, my love? I find it curious she is not here despite her involvement in this episode." Cersei bit her lip while she thought of a response. It didn't take long.

"Visenya is but a child. She was so traumatized by the experience I thought it best to spare her the horror of reliving it." The King looked at her incredulously.

"That sounds not at all like my little warrior. Send for her." A page quickly ducked out of the pavilion and returned in short order with the princess in tow. The little girl looked at Daeron defiantly and flashed a kind smile at Jon. When put to the question by the King she relayed the truth of the mater, much to her brother's and mother's frustration.

"Please don't hurt him, father. He was just defending us from Daeron," she pleaded. "Ghost is good! I swear!" Rhaegar almost seemed to laugh.

"A brave girl," he said. "It seems I named you well."

"But the wolf savaged your son, My King! Surely it must be dealt with!" Cersei seemed determined to salvage something from the situation.

"Maester, how serious is the wound?" At this point it was clear that the King was tiring of the situation.

"Not serious at all, Your Grace," replied the maester. The crannogman nodded, finally agreeing with the royal healer on something.

"Then it seems no harm was done," said Rhaegar with an air of finality. "Jaehaerys." Jon almost jumped at the King's command.

"You are forbidden from allowing the wolf near Baelor and Visenya." The King paused for a moment to look Ghost in the eyes. The wolf also seemed to shrink from his gaze. "You will chain it or cage it when necessary and when I order it. Is that understood?" Jon nodded in disappointment.

"Yes, Your Grace."

"And as for you, Daeron, you are forbidden from being near the wolf. I had promised that the creature would be under royal protection. If you cannot prevent yourself from provoking its wrath then you cannot be trusted to be in its presence. We will speak later about your punishment for striking your siblings." The King rose and strode out, waving for the rest of the onlookers to disperse. The Queen and Daeron both shot Jon a murderous glare before departing. Visenya curtsied in his direction and blew a kiss goodbye to Ghost. As everyone but his own fellowship wandered out, he saw the crannogman had remained. Jon walked over to him.

"I take it my half-brother didn't want your services?" he asked the shorter man, finally taking the time to appraise him. The crannogman was dressed in green clothing that fully covered his arms and legs. He was thin of frame and of face, with mud brown hair and a wispy beard that was nonetheless cropped close. His hair also had flecks of grey, which led Jon to suspect he was around the same age as Lord Eddard. The crannogman looked at Jon with warm, deep green eyes and smiled upon seeing him.

"It is good to see you, Your Grace," the man said. "You may call me Jonnel Fenn. As to your question, I'm afraid the young Prince doesn't realize the dangers of the Neck. The cut is small, but it needs to be cleaned better lest it begin to fester."

"I've heard of House Fenn," Jon answered. "You're sworn to the Reeds, are you not?"

"Indeed we are, Your Grace, for it was Lord Reed who sent me to you. He believes you shall need the company of a crannogman during your time in the South."

"To do what? Catch him frogs to eat?" laughed the Smalljon.

"I think you will find my people can be far more useful than that," replied Jonnel quietly. He seemed to project an air of knowledge and confidence that Jon found reassuring.

"Lord Reed has done much for my family," Jon said melancholically as he recalled what he had been told of the Tower of Joy. "It would be dishonorable to refuse his offer." This seemed to make the crannogman smile.

"Lord Fenn, perhaps the first thing you should do while in our company is treat Prince Daeron's wounds," mused Domeric Bolton.

"Should I say you have sent me, Your Grace?" the crannogman asked.

"I do not think that would be wise," Domeric went on softly. "Best to say you come simply out of a desire to serve the prince, and warn him of the dangers of festering wounds in the Neck. This may make him talkative, and it would be a good thing to know what he has on his mind." Jon caught the heir to the Dreadfort's meaning and nodded at the Fenn, who took his poultice and prepared to leave. Before he did, he turned to Jon once more.

"You will not regret taking me into your service, Your Grace," he said, green eyes gleaming. "There is much you will need to know, and much I can show you."


	8. VIII Cersei

**Cersei**

She hadn't expected him to come to her tonight. But he had. Her husband opened the flap to her tent and strode in confidently, wearing nothing but his boots, riding pants, and a loose silk shirt that was partially undone, revealing his smooth, muscular chest. His amethyst eyes regarded her hungrily, but truth be told she wasn't in the mood. It wasn't that he wasn't skilled, Cersei knew she was hardly the first woman he had bedded, but after putting a bastard ahead of her son in the succession and shaming her in front of the entire royal party she didn't understand how he expected her to be willing. Perhaps she would think of Jaime again, like she had on her wedding night.

Memories of that near-disaster did manage to bring a smile to her face. Rhaegar had been good, but that hadn't stopped her from crying out her brother's name as she finished. She could remember the fear that had gripped her as her new husband had rolled off of her and looked at her with a confused expression. Then, the man who had been so somber in the wake of the capture of King's Landing and the death of his wife and father had laughed.

"It seems your father was right," he had said drolly. "You were made for a royal marriage." But that had been then. Now, she allowed him to wrap his arms around her as she prepared to do her duty, letting him lay kisses along her neck that she might have enjoyed had she not been furious with him.

"You do not wish it?" he asked, whispering softly in her ear.

"Far be it from me to keep my lord husband from claiming his rights," she responded coldly.

"But you would, if you could." A statement of fact. He released her slowly and watched as she sauntered over to the bed, swaying her hips as she did so. She did not want him that night, but now that he was not pressing the issue she thought she might enjoy making him suffer.

"I'm surprised you did not wish to pass the evening with your blue mistress, my love." Cersei allowed a bit of disdain to creep into her voice. Her husband's love of music and poetry were things they could share, but some of his hobbies she simply could not understand, even if they held a morbid fascination for her.

"I wish you would not call it that. The shade of the evening shows me what problems _might_ arise." Rhaegar sighed, his despondent gaze resting upon her. "I do not need it to see the difficulties I face in the here and now." Cersei allowed herself an unladylike snort. 'Difficulties' was an understatement.

"You shamed your trueborn son in front of everyone today!" she snapped at him. "Daeron may someday rule. How do you expect him to do so if he is not respected by his most unruly vassals?!"

"Daeron is third in line," he reminded her.

"When he should be second! Do you really think that bastard of yours will ever sit the Iron Throne? I doubt even the Northmen would support him!" Rhaegar closed the gap between them in an instant, raising a hand as if to strike her. She flinched, waiting for the impact, but it never came. He lowered his hand slowly and gave her a resigned look.

"In that, you are not wrong," he admitted. "Jaehaerys will never be King."

"Then why put him in such a position?" Cersei had gained the advantage, a rare enough thing in arguments with her husband, and she did not intend to lose it. "Why destabilize the Realm by according him so many honors he has no right to?" As soon as those words left her lips the fire returned to his eyes. _Very well, let him be angry_ , Cersei thought. _After all I've suffered it's far better than he deserves_.

"Because his being here, with us, may mean that the Realm is saved from What is to Come."

"Prophecy?! You would decide the fate of all Seven Kingdoms according to something you saw in some fever dream or read in some ancient scroll?!"

"When interpreted carefully, it has proven itself to be useful. Had I not heeded the Higher Mysteries, the Realm would have been run into the ground by a drunken lout."

"Had you not heeded the Higher Mysteries, that lout would have never taken up arms against you!"

"I will not apologize for doing what was necessary. And can you really complain?" He arched an eyebrow at her. "Your family has benefited greatly."

"My family was given what it should have received under your father for years of leal service!"

"A mistake that might never have been corrected had I not taken shade of the evening before I left to face Robert. Since then things have gone well. Your father and I have given the Realm good years, and the North is well prepared."

"The North is well prepared?! You say that like it's a good thing!" Rhaegar gave her that look she hated, the one laden with condescension, as if all his talk of prophecy and Higher Mysteries was something she could never hope to comprehend.

"How can you doubt something when you have seen its power?" he asked, clearly losing his patience. "The maegi you saw as a girl spoke truly. Did you not wed the King instead of the Prince?" There were times she had regretted telling him of Maggy the Frog, of the future the woods witch had laid out for her after tasting her blood at Lannisport. But it had been early in their marriage, and she had been so alone in King's Landing. The man she had been infatuated with as a child had become her husband, and unlike her father and brother he had listened to her when the fear of the valonqar had gripped her again.

"You're ten children short of fulfilling _that one_ , my love," she hissed.

"What a comfort that must be to your friend Melara." She slapped him. Hard. He smiled back at her. He had won this round. She had broken first.

"Have you ever considered you might have misinterpreted what you see?" she said carefully, trying to save face. "That it may be half true, as Maggy's words were for me? We have three children, Rhaegar, why could they not be the three heads of the dragon? Why does it have to be Aegon and…Jaehaerys?" From what she understood, the boy hated that name. So did she, albeit for different reasons.

"Not in this case. Not with him." His voice was heavy and melancholy, as if the weight of the world rested on what he was about to tell her. Cersei listened, not sure she would like where this was going.

"When Ned Stark hid the boy from me, I thought I had been wrong, that I might have misinterpreted his role in the Song of Ice and Fire. Once I learned the truth, I struggled to understand what it might mean. I consulted everyone and everything: Marwyn, the Red Woman, the archives on Dragonstone, the shade of the evening, my uncle in the far north. All have come to the same conclusion. The boy will die young. This is not some fortune-teller's farce, nor but one song among many. A chorus testifies to Jaehaerys' fate. This is his destiny."

"Then what good is it to bring him to the capital?" Cersei asked, now somewhat intrigued. Without knowing it, her husband had offered her a way to clean up the mess he had created.

"At King's Landing, if he grows to love his family, I may be able to make his death mean something. He may yet help Aegon become the Prince that was Promised." Cersei pursed her lips in frustration. The offer seemed to have been retracted.

"Why are you telling me all this?" she questioned him. "You've never been this open about the future before, not even to that cabal of sorcerers you place so much faith in."

"That is because I have never been this certain before. It is also because I do not want you to interfere. I know what you would like to do to the boy. Know also that I will do everything in my power to prevent it. My eyes and ears extend much farther than yours, my love. Even if you try to make it look like an accident, I will know. I cannot allow you to prevent him from fulfilling his destiny." She didn't bother to hide her frustration at this.

"Promise me you will not try to have him killed."

"I promise." It was a meaningless oath. All she had to do was speak to her father and he would no doubt take care of the rest. Although she had become accustomed to it, there were times she still appreciated not having to lift a finger to get what she wanted.

"I will hold you to that." A long pause followed, Rhaegar made for the flap of the tent as if to leave before stopping and turning towards her.

"I think the maegi's words would have come true in full had you been Robert's queen." Cersei admitted to herself she had thought of what it would have been like had she been married to Robert Baratheon.

"The man's appetites were far less restrained," she conceded. "I would not be surprised if he had fathered thirteen bastards. He might have known better than to legitimize them, though." She was disappointed that her husband seemed unperturbed by the slight. Instead, he gazed at her intently.

"Do you want to see?" The question hung heavily in the air. She knew what he was offering.

"Is that really what I will see?" She said derisively, doing her best to hide her curiosity. "You say the shade of the evening speaks to you of many things at once, and then only in riddles."

"That is when I only wish to see all it might reveal to me. Of the future and of things past for which I was not present it can be vague, but it speaks loudly and clearly of things as they might have been. You have only to focus on them as you drink it, to clear your mind of all else."

"What has it shown you?" she asked. "Of what might have been?"

"My death at the Trident. My family reclaiming the Seven Kingdoms with fire and blood. Winter." He pulled out a small vial of blue liquid from one of his pockets, uncorked it, and offered it to her. It stank of rotting flesh.

"I cannot afford to have you doubt its power any longer," he said. "Too much is at stake. Drink, and see the truth of the maegi's words." In that moment Cersei wanted to push the vial away, to send it flying to the other side of the tent, to tell Rhaegar she would not be party to his madness.

But it called to her. When her father had told her that she would truly wed Rhaegar Targaryen, the only man besides Jaime who could ever be worthy of her, it had seemed like a dream. As the years had marched on, however, Cersei had come to understand that her childhood fantasies of being the Queen had been only that. Rhaegar was solitary, brooding, secretive, and favored his children by his first wife over the ones she had given him. He had made time for her, he had sung for her, and he was a more than capable lover, but Cersei knew deep down he only did those things to appease her, to keep her under control. There was a gulf between them that seemed like it could never be bridged, one that had only widened as time went by. At first she had wondered what she had done wrong, why she wasn't good enough for him, why she had to endure the indignity of being asked time and again by her father why she could never lift her husband's spirits. She had wondered why he needed prophecy, why he needed a Red Woman on Dragonstone when he had a golden one in his bed. It had taken years before she had been able to convince herself that Rhaegar had simply failed to appreciate her. It was all this that made the shade of the evening and its secrets so alluring. Perhaps Robert would have been different. Perhaps after a night together he would have never looked at another woman. Perhaps she would have been happy. Cersei took the vial from Rhaegar and slowly placed it to her lips, trying not to gag at the stench. Rhaegar placed a hand on hers.

"Clear your mind of all but that which you wish to know," he advised her gently. "I will be here should something go wrong." She tried not to think about that as she downed the vial quickly. It tasted as horrible as she expected at first, but soon reminded her of everything she had ever tasted, along with a few sensations that were new to her. She looked to Rhaegar. His long, silver blonde hair seemed to be shortening and changing color, becoming golden like her own. His loose shirt was replaced with white armor and a white cloak, and his features, though handsome, seemed to also become younger, more like those of a man she had not seen in ages.

"Jaime," whispered, putting a hand to her brother's cheek. "Jaime, my love, I've missed you." She laid back down on the bed and allowed Jaime on top of her, feeling more complete than she had in ages. He gripped her shoulders gently, and she closed her eyes as she prepared for him to enter her. Suddenly his grip on her shoulders tightened, then loosened as his hands slid clumsily about her body. She looked with horror to see her brother shed his armor, to be replaced by corded muscle and thick, dark hair. _Robert Baratheon_. The man's breath reeked of wine, and he seemed to pay her no mind as he was consumed by his own agony and ecstasy.

"Lyanna!" he gasped, tears rolling down his face. She was filled with hatred then, hatred more powerful than she had ever known. Hatred for the man she knew was her husband and the _thing_ growing inside her that was of his making. She found herself scrambling up from under him, reaching for a glass offered to her by an old woman in plainclothes. She drank it hastily, loathing the taste but forcing herself to finish it to the last drop.

She turned back to the bed where the oaf had been, only to see in its place three blonde children with golden crowns upon their heads, two boys and a girl smiling back at her. She walked over to them slowly, but they bounded towards her, each one enveloping her in a warm embrace. She raised her head to see Jaime watching from a distance, still in the armor of the Kingsguard, his eyes filled with a sadness she couldn't understand. She looked to the eldest child, a boy no younger than twelve, and then back to her brother. The resemblance was uncanny. Cersei wanted to thank him, to tell him how grateful she was for the three miracles in front of her, when her hands began to feel wet.

She looked at them and saw they were covered in blood. The eldest, her eldest, was dying in front of her. Blood came pouring from every orifice as his face became puffy and purple. She wanted to scream. Jaime stood there, powerless to stop it. Tyrion laughed cruelly. The severed head of Ned Stark laughed cruelly from atop a spike; Stannis Baratheon and a boy with the head of a wolf joined them. Cersei dropped her son's corpse only to see a horrific gash spread across the girl's, no, her daughter's face. The youngest boy was taken by the hand by beautiful young brunette. She led him away into a raging inferno. She cried out his name until she was hoarse, but she knew he could not hear her. She was being drowned out by repeated chants of "shame, shame, shame." She sunk to her knees, naked and shorn of all her hair, covering her ears to block out the chants, before rising to her feet in defiance, with nothing but anger and hatred left to her.

The horrible blaze that had consumed her youngest boy began to spread, consuming everything around her. A fearsome girl with the Targaryen look stepped through it, regarding her as a dragon might regard its prey. Daenerys Targaryen, first of her name, saw Cersei as nothing more than a piece of meat to be devoured, an obstacle on her way to fire and glory. Through the haze of the flames a massive dark figure could be seen. Cersei scrambled backwards, but it approached too quickly for her to escape and soon the flames were at her back. Daenerys smiled cruelly as a gigantic three-headed dragon emerged from the inferno, opening its maws to reveal rows of blood-drenched fangs. It shook the very ground with its roar and let loose a torrent of wildfire from its mouth. Stannis Baratheon laughed at the irony.

In an instant the flames were extinguished and she saw only darkness. She felt cold, colder than she ever had in her life. Someone was approaching, a pale figure with eyes shining blue. By the light that seemed to filter through them she looked down at her feet to see three golden shrouds covering three small corpses. She could not stop herself from crying, even as she was gripped by terror when her children's bodies rose up against her, their eyes now the same pale blue as the approaching figure. It was at that moment she realized who was coming. The valonqar. The little brother, here to take her life. He wrapped golden hands about Cersei's throat as tears streamed down her face. _No, my love, it can't be you…_

She awoke in a cold sweat. She was still in her tent. Feeling the sun shining down on her through the tent's fabric, she groggily sat up in bed. Rhaegar had taken a seat in a chair nearby, tuning his harp disinterestedly and already dressed for the morning ride. Her clothes were still on. She was relieved to know that some parts of what she had seen had not also taken place in reality.

"It seems you would have lived an interesting life had I fallen at the Trident," Rhaegar mused.

"I do not wish to speak of it," she told him. He nodded in understanding. She was far from forgiving him, but after such an ordeal she now could see why her husband was often so guarded.

"Come," he said, rising from his chair and proceeding out the flap at the entrance of the tent. "The sooner we leave, the sooner we can return home. Remember your promise, Cersei." As soon as he was gone she burst into tears. What she had seen was more horrible than anything she could have ever imagined. She wanted to desperately, but knew she would never be able to convince herself that it was merely a dream. As much as she hated to admit it, Rhaegar had been right. There was power in the Higher Mysteries. But her experience from the previous night had shown her something else. Their power was far from absolute. Her husband had thwarted his fate, and spared her the one she had seen in her vision, the one laid out for her by Maggy the Frog. If she were determined enough, she could still forge her own destiny. There needn't be a valonqar. Daeron could be the Prince that was Promised. And Jaehaerys…no, Jon Snow. Jon Snow could be nothing more than a footnote in history, a minor talking point when learned men spoke with reverence of the reign of Daeron the Great.


	9. IX Daenerys

**Daenerys**

Her brother had returned. As Daenerys looked out her window from her chambers in the Red Keep she could just see the outline of the King's party as it made its way back to the capital. She had received word by raven that she had been betrothed to the heir to the North, and this filled her with unease. Her brother no doubt had the best of intentions, but she had heard the septons say that the North was a wild and dangerous place, where men had forsaken the worship of the true gods to hang men's entrails from trees in black rites learned from the demons of the forest who had once inhabited Westeros. What's more, the Rebellion had started in part because of the forbidden love between Rhaegar and a Stark, and that as a result there had been little love between the Starks of Winterfell and her brother the King. Rhaenys had immediately sensed her discomfort when she learned of the news, and had suggested that Daenerys was simply worried her husband-to-be would take her like a savage wolf in the bedchamber. This had not been among her concerns, but had been added to them after her niece's jape. She had never understood how Rhaenys could be comfortable joking about such things. But then as daughter to the King, betrothed to the Crown Prince, and grand-niece to the Hero of the Rebellion and Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, she was used to saying what she liked.

"You know, if father really did need to go fetch his bastard from the North, then the least he could do was leave his bedwarmer and her brood up there to freeze in his place." _Speaking of the Queen of Volantis_. Daenerys was never liked the fact that Rhaenys always found a way to enter her chambers unannounced.

"I don't think Lord Tywin would appreciate that," Daenerys offered meekly.

"The Hand that Pulls the Strings is an old man whose days are numbered. I've already spoken with Egg about finding a suitable replacement when I am Queen and he is King."

"When Egg is king? If Lord Tywin's so old, don't you think my brother would outlive him?" Daenerys asked. Rhaenys sighed and pursed her lips before responding.

"No, I don't." Rhaenys draped herself over the couch beside Dany to get a better look at the royal caravan, uncoiling herself like a serpent in the morning sun. Daenerys sighed as she saw how comfortable her niece was with her body, how easily and gracefully it moved, attracting the attention of nearly every man at court. Rhaenys had inherited her mother's slight frame and olive skin, but she also had the Targaryen features of amethyst eyes and silver blonde hair, which had combined to make her a truly exotic beauty. Daenerys was told she was attractive by some hoping to gain her favor, but such praise always seemed to ring hollow whenever she compared herself to Rhaenys or her good-sister the Queen.

"I've heard it said my nephew is no bastard," Dany said. "That Rhaegar and the Stark girl were wed before she gave birth." Rhaenys scoffed.

"Before one of those hideous white trees the Northmen call gods," she spat. "From what I understand, some kind words were exchanged and then the deed was done. That's hardly a wedding. I've even heard the High Septon might not recognize it."

"But surely he must! Besides, it's not as if the Faith hasn't made exceptions for our family in the past."

"The Faith has not been forced to make an exception for polygamy in some time, Daenerys," Rhae reminded her sternly. "And when last they were, the King's actions were backed by Balerion the Black Dread." She paused for a moment to think before looking at Dany with a wicked expression.

"You know, perhaps you should get to know your new nephew," she said huskily before leaning over and whispering into Dany's ear. "See if the Starks really take their women like a wolf takes his bitch." Dany recoiled at the thought.

"Don't you think we should get ready to greet them?" Daenerys asked, desperately wishing to change the subject. "I'm hardly dressed for a public reception."

"Nor I," Rhae seemed to think aloud as she stared down at her dress, a loose red slip in the orange of House Martell. "Something with a plunging neckline, I think. It's always good to remind Cersei how old she is. I'll send for my things and we can get ready together, you simply have no idea how much gossip has reached my ears since breakfast." Rhae called to one of the attendants waiting outside and gave him instructions to get her a selection of dresses, enjoying watching him blush as she described what she was looking for. Dany also had her servants bring out a selection of gowns, though she felt it necessary to be very clear she would not be following her niece's lead. Ultimately she decided upon a light blue dress in one of the new fashions from the East, with a small while mantle to drape over her shoulders. Like Rhaenys, she painted her face somewhat, but she again she tried to be more restrained than her niece, who smiled as she applied red coloring to her full, sensuous lips. Dany gasped when she saw her niece hang a sapphire pendant about her neck in the shape of the Fiery Heart of R'hllor.

"What?" asked Rhaenys, feigning confusion. "It's no secret I have no love for the Seven. The septons can prattle on about the Father's place in the Godhead mirroring a man's place in the household, but if the Lord of Light offers me the kind of freedom he gave the Red Woman I think I'll take it."

"But Rhae, you'll cause a scandal!" This caused Daenerys' niece to chuckle.

"Oh Dany, you sound like an old woman. I'm hardly a stranger to scandal. Really, it's times like these when I can actually believe you're my aunt."

Rhae gossiped on and on about this lord and that lord, about how Jon Conington had finally gotten his wife pregnant with an heir to the Stormlands, but that the rumors swirled that the true father of Myranda Caron's child was Lord Jon's cousin Red Ronnet, and how Preston Greenfield had been meeting a draper's wife while her husband was away. As Dany brushed her hair and chose which bracelets she would wear to greet her brother she realized she was only half-listening. She could not help but wonder now her brother and the rest of his family would treat her now that she was betrothed to a Stark.

Cersei had always been kind to her, and had instructed Daeron to do the same, but Rhae had always said that was because she saw Dany as a prospective bride for her eldest son. Daeron had been a gentleman during the time they spent together, but Dany remained off-put by the way he treated the servants and the jealous glares he would give Aegon whenever he thought he wasn't looking. If Rhaenys had spoken true, any pretense of a wedding would be gone and any motive for kindness gone with it. She considered what the Stark boy coming south would think of her when they met. She chided herself for that thought. Rhaegar's son was a Targaryen, just as much as she was. But there was no denying that he had been raised in the North his whole life, and that he would have a Northman's opinions of King's Landing, and of her. _Perhaps Rhaenys was right_ , thought Daenerys. _Perhaps I should get to know my nephew. He knows his cousin better than anyone at court, and Northmen are known for plain talk. He might be able to tell me if I'll be happy at Winterfell, if I'll make a good wife for Robb Stark._

Finally ready, the two girls rose to leave Dany's chambers. Rhaenys smiled warmly as she opened the doors to find her great-uncle waiting for her. Prince Lewyn the Huntsman, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, stood at attention before bowing deferentially. Rhae was quick to throw her arms around him in an embrace as her own form of greeting.

"Your Graces," he said respectfully.

"Oh nuncle, must you be so formal?" Rhaenys asked him. "If you're going to escort us to this horrid spectacle, at least allow us some levity first." The old Kingsguard couldn't help but smile as his niece's daughter pouted.

"Very well," he said, leading them down the steps towards the throne room. "I did hear an amusing jape about a chicken attempting to cross a road, though I'm sure it's much funnier in the original Norvoshi." As Prince Lewyn told it, Dany didn't think it would have been, but Rhaenys laughed all the same.

Once they entered the throne room they saw the court entire court had gathered, anxiously awaiting the return of the King and the new Prince. Daenerys was not surprised to see Lord Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King, sitting on the Iron Throne scowling anywhere the whispers among the courtiers became too loud. Feeling the weight of his gaze instantly, whole segments of the room would fall silent and turn their attention to the doors. As she looked up at the mass of jagged spikes that was the Iron Throne, she was amazed by the poise that Lord Tywin displayed while sitting it. Her brother had told her that it was designed by Aegon the Conqueror so that no man could sit easily, and that their father had even cut himself on it. But Lord Tywin showed no physical discomfort, just frustration at the murmuring crowd.

To the left of the throne the rest of the small council could be seen waiting as well. Lord Mace Tyrell, the Master of Laws, stood uncomfortably closest to the Iron Throne, doing his best not to bump into any of the barbs and wishing desperately that he could take a seat. Beside him was Paxter Redwyne, Master of Ships, who seemed less than interested in the goings on at court, but nonetheless seemed to understand that his attendance was mandatory at events like these. The place for the Master of Coin was empty since Rhaegar had sent the Imp to the Wall, but she paid it little mind as her gaze moved to Varys, the master of whisperers, who watched the goings on as if it were a cyvasse board during his opponent's turn. The Spider was no doubt weaving webs even now, plotting and scheming to keep Rhaegar on the Throne. The doddering Grand Maester Pycelle remained seated, seemingly weighed down by the chain of his office. The cane in his hand suggested that he still would rise for the King. As Prince Lewyn took his place in front of the Iron Throne as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Dany looked to the most recent addition to the Small Council. The High Septon stood patiently, the light that came through the hall's windows refracting through his great crystal crown. Though he did what he could to appear serene, she had no doubt that he was secretly quite troubled by the arrival of the Northern Prince.

Egg stood to the right of the throne, looking every inch a prince as he always did. The young man destined to become Aegon VI Targaryen had kept his long pale-blonde hair down and flowing, and was wearing a black and red tunic with dragons sewn into the shoulders. His wine-dark eyes appraised everyone at court, lingering on no one, which was not to say there weren't eyes lingering upon him. Chief amongst them were those of Margaery Tyrell, who had just been summoned from Highgarden at her father's behest. The Tyrell girl blushed fiercely when she received a smile from the prince, but this was to be expected. Aegon was always friendly, and from what Daenerys understood Margaery was at court to win him over. The girl was pretty, without a doubt, but Daenerys doubted she would be successful. Where beauty was concerned Dany doubted any could hold a candle to her niece. Moreover, even if he weren't betrothed to Rhae, Aegon was the Prince of Dragonstone, he could have had any maiden he wanted. _Including me?_ She asked herself. She tried to put the thought out of her mind. She and Aegon were not meant to be. She took her place with Rhaenys to the right of the Throne beside Aegon as part of the royal family and turned her attention back to the great doors to the throne room, which were finally starting to swing open. Whatever the future held for her, she would have a much better understanding of it if she looked through those doors than if she stared back at her nephew.

"All hail His Grace, Rhaegar of the House Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm!" All kneeled as the King entered first, still mounted on his black destrier. He dismounted and stared up at Lord Tywin on the Iron Throne. The Hand rose slowly and carefully descended the steps, kneeling before the King.

"Your Grace," he said dutifully. "We welcome your return to your city." Lord Tywin assumed his position to the immediate left of the throne, Mace Tyrell wordlessly stumbling out of the way. Rhaegar walked up the steps to the Iron Throne and took his seat, lifting his hand to signal that all might rise. The King was dressed in the red and black plate he had worn when he had left the city, a circlet of Valyrian steel gracing his brow. The melancholy in his expression seemed to deepen once he had settled into the throne. Now, he too turned his attention to the doors.

The rest of the royal family was processing in after him in order of seniority as the herald continued to announce them. Cersei of course came in first, her head raised and her nose pointed towards the ceiling. Daenerys thought the Queen was doing her best to maintain her royal bearing in light of what she no doubt considered a great insult, for walking immediately behind her was Rhaegar's northern son.

"All hail Prince Jaehaerys of the House Targaryen, trueborn son of King Rhaegar and his late wife Lyanna!" Murmurs could be heard throughout the crowd. He did not look at all like a Targaryen. Rhaenys had maintained the family's hair and eyes, and Baelor Breakspear of old was said to have his father's features, even if he had the Dornish hair and coloring, but there was only the North in the boy standing before her. His hair was dark brown and his eyes were black as coals. His face seemed cold and impassive. Daenerys wondered whether his features would have been so striking had he not been accompanied by the white wolf at his side. A walking symbol of the North, the animal was magnificent; it was already as large as some of the hounds in the royal kennels, and if it truly were a dire wolf she had been told it would grow to be as large as a pony. Its white fur was beautiful and smooth, and though they were bright red its eyes matched those of its master, regarding everything without the slightest hint of emotion. As the Stark boy knelt before the Iron Throne and remained there, the wolf seemed to recognize the gravity of the situation and sat down beside its master, head lowered in what looked like the deference a man might give his lord. Cersei had already bowed civilly to her husband and took her place beside the women of the royal family to the right of the King.

"You're looking lovely today, Rhaenys," the Queen said acidly as she looked at her husband's eldest daughter. "I just love your dress." Rhae smiled at the barb, relishing the prospect of combat.

"Why thank you, Your Grace," she replied. "I must say I'm fond of yours as well. Very appropriate for someone your age." Cersei scowled as Dany tried to suppress a laugh.

Daeron, Visenya and Baelor were right behind the Northman. Cersei's eldest did his best to keep an even expression, but to someone who knew him as well as Daenerys did it was obvious that he was perturbed. He and his full-siblings kneeled before the throne and were bid to rise and join the rest of the royal family. The Northman remained on his knees even as the rest of the party filed in, kneeled, and took their places amongst the courtiers already present. Noticeably, none came as close to the throne as Jaehaerys and his wolf. A group of Northmen who had no doubt accompanied Rhaegar's son entered last, either bearing the sigil of their houses or in the livery of House Stark, a grey dire wolf on white. When they knelt it was noticeably forced, and they took a position dangerously close to the royal family among the courtiers, no doubt to be close to their prince when he sat beside Aegon. Prince Lewyn turned to them venomously, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword. A middle aged balding Northman simply smiled back at him and patted his own weapon, a large sword with a bear's head on the pommel. Finally, Rhaegar bid his son to rise.

"My lords!" Rhaegar's voice resounded throughout the hall. There was something of his singing in it, and Daenerys was glad to see that it commanded the room and kept any of the assembled lords and ladies form gossiping.

"Since the beginning of my reign there has been much change in the Seven Kingdoms, but one thing has remained constant. The Realm has remained whole. It has remained united, from the Wall to Sunspear. Today we have the pleasure of showing the truth of that unity by welcoming our Northern friends to the capital, and I have the pleasure of introducing to you my second son, Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen!" The crowd looked to the boy now. Rhaenys and Lewyn stared daggers at him, as did Daeron and Cersei, though Visenya clapped happily and bid little Baelor to do the same. Daenerys looked to Aegon, whose expression was almost unreadable. She then looked to the Small Council to see their reactions. Lord Tywin was unhappy, but that was nothing new, while Lord Tyrell and the Grand Maester appeared genuinely confused as to what their response should be. Varys seemed to be sizing Jaehaerys up, dissecting the boy with his eyes. The High Septon looked as if he were about to burst, he turned to the King and opened his mouth but after a quick glare from Rhaegar fell silent. The old priest narrowed his eyes at this.

"I thank you, Your Grace, for this honor," Jaehaerys said weakly. The wolf at his side slipped its head beneath his hand. Jaehaerys ran his fingers through the thick white fur, seemingly gaining strength from it. When he next spoke, his voice was much deeper and more authoritative. Out of the corner of her eye, Dany could see the middle-aged Northman smiling.

"Your Grace has offered me more than I could have ever hoped for," he went on. "I swear upon my honor that I shall not disappoint you. I shall be ever mindful of my duties as a prince of the Seven Kingdoms. I look forward to undertaking this new service to Your Grace and to your heirs after you." Egg's face lit up at this. Before either Jaehaerys or Rhaegar could say anything further he descended the steps towards his new brother and embraced him warmly. Jaehaerys' wolf recoiled but remained calm. The boy himself seemed shocked, his eyes only widening in confusion when Aegon whispered something in his ear. Turning to the assembled courtiers, the Prince of Dragonstone addressed them as a player might an audience.

"It is no doubt common knowledge by now that the Princess Daenerys will go north to marry the heir to Winterfell," he began. "And while I needs must bid farewell to my aunt, words cannot describe the joy that I feel, that we should all feel, at the return of my long-lost brother!" Rhaenys' mouth hung agape.

"Jaehaerys, I welcome you to this, our home, and promise that you shall always have a place here as a trueborn son of my father when my time comes to succeed him. To Jaehaerys! To the Prince who was lost, but now is found! To my brother!"

"Here here!" came the cries of Egg's men from the crowd. Soon they spurred the rest of the court into cheering. Aegon raised a still-confused Jaehaerys' hand in the air. Daenerys saw Egg's warm and friendly smile become much more devious when his gaze fell upon Cersei and her children. Rhae smirked.

"Well, at least he's putting the bastard to good use," she said. Aegon and Jaehaerys took their places beside the King, and what followed was anti-climactic. Rhaegar heard petitions and addressed grievances: those of the Stormlords and Reachmen who wanted land claims resolved, a Gulltown Arryn seeking a new royal charter for his city, and a million other things besides. Dany was glad when it was all over. She turned to look at Jaehaerys and saw that he had already returned to the company of his Northmen.

"He seems much more comfortable among them," she thought aloud.

"And that's where the bastard should have stayed," interjected Rhaenys. "Down here he's only one more piece in the game." Dany was disappointed in her niece.

"But Rhae, my brother said he's no bastard, and even if he were I thought you were fond of Dornish customs. Isn't respect for bastards one of them?"

"Oh yes, my mother's family _respects_ their bastards, but they do not give them things they do not deserve. At the end of the day, a Sand is still a Sand. They know their place." She stormed off in Aegon's direction as Daenerys sighed. If she was honest with herself, it was hard for her to believe Jaehaerys was a Targaryen, but the least she could do was be kind to him.

The rest of the day proved uneventful. The feast in Jaehaerys' honor was not scheduled until the following night, to allow various lords and dignitaries more time to arrive and settle into the capital, so Dany practiced her needlework and sought out Septon Lyonel, the Red Keep's chaplain, to ask whether Rhaenys had had the right of what she had said earlier about the Father's place in the Godhead. He had told her it was a useful bit of oratory, but he was not of the school that held the Father to be the first principle within the Seven. Rather, he explained, just as light refracted through a prism into Seven colors, so the unapproachable light of the One was refracted into the Seven when It stood in relation to the world, and just as no color was prior to any other, no Person among the Seven could be called prior to any other. This only left Dany with more questions, but she decided that they were of little consequence so long as her devotion was sincere. She decided she would look for something to read in the library to pass the rest of the day before dinner.

She did not expect to find him there. Jaehaerys was sitting at a table in the Red Keep's library, utterly engrossed in a heavy volume. His white dire wolf lay at his side, resting comfortably. It silently raised its head and looked at her with what she assumed was curiosity. Jaehaerys seemed to notice this and turned to face her.

"H-hello, Jaehaerys," she stammered.

"Your Grace," he replied courteously.

"What are you reading?" Dany asked him.

"Just looking at a family tree." He tried a warm smile, like he had no doubt seen on his father and half-brother. It didn't suit him.

"May I ask why?" The confused look she received immediately made her worry that she might have said something insensitive. The wolf looked up at its master as Jaehaerys pondered his response.

"I'm trying to understand what Prince Aegon said to me in the throne room." Daenerys nodded for him to go on.

"When he whispered in your ear, you mean?" Jaehaerys nodded.

"He told me 'at long last, I've found my Orys.' I assumed he was making some reference to the family history like Daeron does from time to time, but I can't find anything about an Orys Targaryen."

"Orys Baratheon," Dany corrected. Jaehaerys raised an eyebrow at this.

"The founder of that house," she went on. "He was one of Aegon the Conqueror's most trusted generals." She hesitated, wondering if she really should tell him everything. "And rumored bastard brother." His face sank.

"I see." He closed the book with a thud and made to leave before stopping himself and turning to face her. His eyes seemed to have hardened into a resolve she had not yet seen in him.

"It seems my ignorance of the family history is something that needs to be corrected."

"It is the history of the Seven Kingdoms," Daenerys added not without some pride.

"Then tell me," he requested, offering her a seat across from him. "Who was Daeron the Good?" Dany resisted the urge to groan as she sat down and began to leaf through the book Jaehaerys had been reading. She knew where this was going.


	10. X Jon

**Jon**

"Lord Corbray has been abandoned by the sword of his fathers because he has abandoned the Faith of his fathers!" roared the ragged septon to the crowd of onlookers. "He has forsaken the Faith as it was handed down to us from our ancestors for the lies that come forth from King's Landing! This is why Lord Arryn's campaigns fail! He cloaks himself in holiness and his descent from our Sacred Forebears, but he has taken to wife yet another daughter of the First Men, the very savages he now makes war on!" The Lord of the Eyrie halted his horse and stared intently at the pious fool making the speech. The man stopped dead when he saw him, words catching in his throat. Jon studied his face, making sure he remembered every feature, and then rode on. He would mention it to Lord Shett when he entered the city. The Lord of the Gull Tower was of First Men stock and took great exception to septon Janos' preachers spewing their nonsense in the lands he had sworn to defend.

Jon sighed. Septon Janos had been useful at first, full throated in his support for Jon's decision to make war on the Mountain Clans. But as time went on it had become clear that giving him a free hand had been a mistake. Like many in the Vale, the septon was as zealous about his Andal heritage as he was about his faith, which he claimed was pure and unadulterated for having been unsullied by the lies of the Valyrians and the First Men. Jon admitted he had never quite understood how the Seven could truly be One in the way the Eyrie's chaplain had described, but he still thought Janos went too far in claiming only the Father was God. It was this very same doubt of the septon that was beginning to prove costly, however. As the war effort began to encounter obstacles, what had started as organizing wagon caravans to protect travelling smallfolk had turned to condemnation of Lord Arryn for not adhering to Janos' own peculiar doctrines.

And the war effort was encountering serious obstacles. Lord Lyonel losing his family's Valyrian sword was just the latest. He had been told the Mountain Clans were only able to field three thousand men, but in the rugged terrain of the Mountains of the Moon, hiding in caves and relying on ambush, they had proven able to bleed and defeat forces far larger than their own. He had been fighting the Mountain Clans all his life, and he knew they were tenacious, but something was wrong. They seemed to have a much better understanding of the Vale lords' tactics than they had previously, the knights they wounded would often die in agony of poisons that had never been seen before, and their blades themselves were now made of well-crafted steel. Castle forged steel. He knew he needed to get to the bottom of this, and that's why he found himself entering the city of Gulltown.

That, and he needed another loan. The Hunters were a good family with productive lands, and though it had seemed like a necessity to set Lysa aside for a bride from the Vale, Lord Eon had still been grateful enough to provide him with funds to help finance the campaign. But that hadn't lasted. Old Lord Hunter had died and his son Gilwood was a sot who was running his family's holdings into the ground. _A house divided against itself cannot stand_ , he thought, remembering Lord Baelish's quotation of some shepherd's proverb from the Far East. He did not relish returning to speak with Janyce about potential matches for their daughter.

The city itself was bustling, as had become the norm in recent years. It was nothing like the Gulltown Lord Arryn had known in his youth, which while industrious never had the flurry of activity that he could see before him. _All built on usury and lies_. Jon Arryn shook his head. That usury and those lies gave him the funds he needed to defend the Vale, to give it a sense of purpose after the Rebellion. As shameful as it was, there was only one person that he could come to when he needed money.

As Lord of Gulltown, Gerold Grafton was right out. It was never good policy to be indebted to one of your most powerful vassals, especially one who had just negotiated a marriage with another equally powerful. Propriety dictated he would have to congratulate Lord Gerold on his betrothal of his son Gyles to Ysilla Royce. Nor could he sully the family name by taking a loan from merchants or jumped-up lordlings whose power came from what they bought and sold. House Arryn of the Eyrie's words were _As High as Honor_ , and that meant avoiding sullying yourself through contact with such people. This of course left only one option. The part of the family that did not feel that way.

The manse of House Arryn of Gulltown was built to resemble the Eyrie, something which vexed Jon to no end. It stood at the top of one of the hills upon which the city was built, nearly of a height with the Gull Tower which defended the city gates and Lord Grafton's keep itself. It never ceased to amaze Jon how tasteless this branch of the family had become over the years. If they wanted to maintain the pretense of nobility, they shouldn't have married so many fishmongers. He called for the servants to take his horse and those of his retinue, dismounted, and ascended the steps to the large mahogany doors with a moon carved into them. They creaked open slowly and Lord Arryn was led inside to his distant cousin's office, where the man was scribbling something on a piece of parchment. The office, at least, did not make a mockery of his family's ancestral home. It was decorated sparingly and lined with bookshelves which must have kept the records of past dealings. The oak desk at which Denys Arryn sat was large and ornate, but that was so it could accommodate the many ledgers and devices he needed for his trade, like the abacus resting near its edge. Overall, he was thankfully in a place of work. Nonetheless, Jon wanted nothing more than to overturn the table in front of him with bread and salt. Supposedly his cousin Denys left them there permanently as a reminder to all that visited him of his noble ancestry. _A mockery of guest right_. Denys looked up from his papers and quickly rose to his feet, bowing before Jon and bidding him partake of the bread and salt. In the past the man had been ebullient at seeing the Lord of the Eyrie walk through his doors, but today something was off. He did not look happy.

Jon partook as was custom while Denys returned to his seat, allowing his distant cousin to stand.

"So good to see you again, coz, I mean, my lord," Denys tittered nervously. "Would you like something to drink? I've recently come into a case of wine from the Disputed Lands. Very hard to acquire, I can see why the Free Cities fight so bitterly over them." That was supposed to be a joke, but neither Jon nor Denys managed a laugh.

"How is the family?" he asked. "How are the Lady Janyce and little Robyn?"

"They are well. I must thank you for allowing me to pass the night with you again, coz," Jon forced himself to say. "Your services in recent years have been most commendable." Denys nodded seriously, as if he were waiting for the right moment to break bad news.

"Anything for family, my lord," Denys replied, taking one of the two glasses of wine and offering the other to Jon. The Lord of the Eyrie took a sip and found himself enjoying the taste. It was far more complex than what the local vintages offered. Jon took another sip, thinking the flavors would best be enjoyed slowly. Denys took a deep draught from his own glass before continuing.

"On to business then?" Jon Arryn nodded.

"Cousin, I shall require another five hundred dragons for the coming months." Denys nearly spit out his wine.

"I'm sorry, my lord, but I can't afford do that." This left the Lord of the Eyrie incensed.

"And why not?" he asked, allowing a small bit of the anger he felt creep into his words.

"Because, my lord, as a man who makes his living through trade, my assets are considerably more…fungible than your own. The amount of money I have at my disposal changes from year to year and even from month to month. These past few months have been unkind to me, my Lord, and every time you visit you demand so much. I had to dip into my own personal savings just to accommodate your last request. If we could just agree on an interest rate—"

"Enough!" Jon bellowed. "If you insist on usury with the fishmongers and whoever else you wring pennies out of that's your own business, but I will not have you further soil the Arryn name by committing it against your own family!" This nearly caused Denys to spill his wine, but he quickly collected himself.

"It brings me no joy to say so, my lord," he began to apologize, "but I need a way to recoup my losses, and you are behind on your payments again. You of all people should know how expensive war can be, and my household cannot bear the strain of financing one all on its own. I can show you the ledgers if you like." This was an exaggeration, of course, but nonetheless Jon knew there was some truth to it. Finances had never been his strong suit, but never before had he felt so hamstrung by them.

"We will discuss this when I return from my visit with Lord Grafton," Jon told him sternly. "I suppose I will need to take a look at those ledgers."

"Of course, my lord," Denys sighed. "Please, give my regards to Artys when you see him." Jon set the servants to unpacking his belongings and called for his guard and horse as he made his way to Lord Grafton's keep. A true fortress in the heart of the city, House Grafton had not allowed being surrounded by merchants to cause them to forget what it meant to be of noble blood. The walls were high and sturdy, made of the mountain stone that was so readily available in the Vale. They formed a massive circle around the inner keep, preventing an easy attack from any one side. The towers themselves were built high, giving them an excellent vantage point that was only increased by the fact that the Grafton citadel was seated on the tallest hill in Gulltown. Jon wondered if the Rebellion might not have ended here had Lord Gerold's father Marq not pulled back to the keep when the city had been besieged by his own loyal Valemen. Instead of breaking the siege however, Lord Marq had decided to man the city's outer walls with his men where Robert Baratheon slew him. _Not that it mattered in the long run_ , Jon thought. _We still lost._

Lord Grafton received him in his solar, dressed smartly in a vest with the yellow and red of his house and flanked by Lord Shett of the Gull Tower and Gulltown's head of customs, Lord Petyr Baelish. Lord Shett bowed deferentially, as did Lord Baelish, though the latter seemed to be smirking as he did so. Jon Arryn disliked him intensely. Men called him Littlefinger, for despite whatever position he may have held in Gulltown he owed his entry into the halls of power to being nothing more than the lord of the smallest keep on the smallest of the Fingers. Lord Arryn had prevailed on Lord Grafton to place Littlefinger in charge of customs after the man had agreed to take Lysa to wife. Despite the unheard-of wealth that had been brought into the Vale through Baelish's reforms, however, it was a decision Jon had come to regret. Gulltown had become a target for the septons' ire with the increase in whorehouses that could be found in the city, many of which were owned by Lord Baelish himself. He might have been able to look past that had it not been for what her new husband's business ventures had done to Lysa. It had been clear when Jon had told her that she would remarry Lord Baelish that she had loved him dearly, but the woman had never been stable, and the strain of being married to a man who made a living from brothels had been too much for her to bear. Jon was at least glad he had found a septon willing to perform her funeral, as there were many even in Gulltown who claimed that the gods detested suicide. Jon was broken from his reminiscences when Lord Grafton clasped him warmly by the forearm. He then turned to Lord Shett, then finally to Littlefinger. They sat down to beside the small fireplace Lord Grafton used to warm himself during the winter. The solar was still a bit opulent for Jon's tastes, but unlike his distant cousin's home had a sense of decorum. It was still a place fitting for a lord.

"Would you like something to drink, my lord?" Lord Grafton offered. "Lord Royce has sent me a few of his best barrels. I insisted on it as part of Ysilla's dowry." The assembled Lord shared a polite chuckle at that.

"Yes, I must congratulate you on that match," Lord Arryn commented. "It is most advantageous," Jon paused to take a sip of his wine. "And most surprising."

"It was actually I who brokered it," Littlefinger cut in, much to Jon's frustration. "My Lords of Royce and Grafton have long been rivals, but I was able to convince them that they had far more in common than they realized." Lord Grafton nodded at this.

"Yes, Petyr has been quite a gift to us, my lord. Profits are up, trade has increased, and the city as a whole is better for it." Lord Grafton looked to Lord Shett, who was also about to speak up.

"Indeed, the Gull Tower is better manned and armed than it has been since the days of my grandfather."

"Where is that wine?" Lord Grafton demanded. "Artys!" A young man dressed in a vest with the sigil of House Arryn of Gulltown entered with tray holding a decanter and some glasses. He set the tray down and filled each glass before handing them to each of the Lords present. So this is _Lord Grafton's squire_ , Jon thought. Jon had considered it presumptuous at best when he heard that Denys had named his son after the founder of House Arryn, but from what Lord Grafton had told him in his letters the boy had the makings of a real knight. He had already unhorsed men twice his age and showed considerable promise as a swordsman. It did not hurt that the boy was handsome too. Jon smiled at Artys, whose face lit up appreciatively before he bowed and left.

"As hard as it may be to believe, my lord, Artys is a credit to your family," Lord Grafton told him. "I see much more of his namesake than his father in him." Jon was glad to hear it, but it was time to get down to business.

"I saw another one of Septon Janos' men preaching outside the gates today." Lord Arryn began.

"They are growing bold," Lord Shett admitted, "but of late we have been able to keep them under control. They rarely preach within the city walls."

"I don't see how those heretics have any appeal." Lord Grafton added. "Septon Janos would deny the divinity of six gods! It's the Faith of the Seven, not the Faith of the Father!"

"A clever line, my lord," Littlefinger chirped. "You should write to the High Septon and offer your services as an apologist."

"Janos is right about one thing. The High Septon is too busy selling his soul to the King and the sorcerers he consorts with now that he's on the Small Council." Lord Shett muttered. Baelish looked back to Lord Grafton and smirked.

"It seems you have your answer, my lord."

"The question, then, is what we shall do with him." Jon said. "The man has clearly outlived his usefulness. If anything, his preaching is making it harder to fight the Mountain Clans, not easier."

"Janos is not the only septon in the Vale, you know," added Lord Shett. "I imagine those of First Men stock would be more than happy to condemn him."

"The condemnation of a few septons will not be enough," Lord Grafton sighed. "We need something more definitive."

"A council, perhaps? To state the position of the all the septons of the Vale?" Lord Shett asked.

"There hasn't been a council since the High Septon was in Oldtown!" Grafton exclaimed. "And even then it hardly produced any results! The Dornishmen still depict the Mother standing on the back of a turtle!"

"But that was because the Kings of the Reach had no power in the places on which the council passed judgment," Littlefinger commented. "If such a council were held under the auspices of the Eyrie, Lord Arryn could make it binding on the entire Vale."

"But what about King's Landing? Would the High Septon not see this as a usurpation of his authority?"

"Janos has even less love for the High Septon than you do, Lord Shett, and he preaches a doctrine that is held in low regard in the capital. If anything, I would think His High Holiness would welcome our quashing dissent on his behalf." All nodded in agreement at Lord Baelish's words, and for the next several minutes Jon listened as Lord Grafton recommended who among the local septons would make good representatives should such a council be called, as well as promising another five hundred men for the campaigns against the Mountain Clans. After they had all finished their wine, Jon decided it was time to go.

"This has been a productive conversation," Jon pronounced, "but I must return to my distant cousin's manse. The hour grows late and I am tired after so many days of travel." He rose to leave and Lord Grafton again clasped him by the forearm.

"Thank you for your visit, Lord Arryn," he said. "I appreciate your willingness to intervene in this matter. Janos' preachers have proven bad for business here in Gulltown. I would see them put an end to."

"I will write you as soon as I have made preparations," Jon replied. He said his goodbyes to Lords Shett and Baelish and turned to leave, allowing a servant to escort him out into the courtyard and prepare his mount. It wasn't until he was about to mount his horse that he realized he was being followed.

"If you have a moment, my lord," the thin voice of Littlefinger called out clandestinely. Jon turned, doing his best to hide his disgust at the man, reminding himself that he still had his uses.

"Do you have some further bit of news, Lord Baelish?"

"That I do," the man almost whispered. "Tidings I do not think it best your vassals hear." Lord Arryn beckoned him closer, nodding for him to continue.

"Not here, my lord," Littlefinger advised him. "I think it would be best if we retired to one of my establishments for this talk."

"Lord Baelish, I will never set foot in one of your establishments." _Not after what they did to Lysa_. Littlefinger sighed.

"As you wish it then," he conceded. "I believe the Mountain Clans are receiving help."

"Of course they are," Jon almost spat. "How else could they be wielding steel?"

"More than steel, my Lord. Help with tactics. Help from men who would see the Vale more fully integrated into the King's Peace."

"The Vale has already made its peace with the King."

"But we are not yet as subservient as Tywin Lannister would like."

"What makes you think Lord Tywin is behind this?" Jon asked.

"My sources have reported to me that among the Stone Crows there rides a man with a striped horse who matches the description of one Vargo Hoat, the leader of a mercenary band once in service to Lord Tywin."

"Sellswords are in service to coin, not men," rejoined Lord Arryn. "What other proof have you?"

"Among the Burned Men it is said there is a man who fights in full plate with his face half-charred. He has a coat of arms as well, my lord. Three dogs on a yellow field."

"Clegane?!" Jon had to do everything in his power to keep himself from shouting. _So that's where the Hound has been hiding, still in service to the Lannisters after all_.

"I will place a bounty on these men, but I cannot move against Lord Tywin until I have more proof. I thank you for your service, Lord Baelish."

"Oh, but my lord, I think you'll find I could be of more service still."

"How so?" Jon asked.

"I have heard that your cousin Denys has fallen on hard times. Since he is your primary creditor, this could hamper the war effort."

"I will not deny it," Lord Arryn admitted. "Are you offering your services as a usurer?"

"In this case, my lord, I would be willing to forgo my usual interest rate, for the good of the Vale." Littlefinger's smirk broadened into a cruel smile. "And for something else, of course."

"And what would that be?"

"Appoint me Treasurer of the Eyrie. A loan is one thing, but in command of the incomes of the entire Vale I could assure you that you would never want for coin again."

"You overstep yourself." Jon reminded him coldly. "I gave you all that you have now so that you might make Lysa comfortable when I made the choice to dismiss her. Whatever else you may have done, in that you have failed spectacularly. It is not something I can ever forgive." For a brief moment genuine anger seemed to flash across Littlefinger's face, but soon he had resumed his customary smirk.

"A few words of warning then," Littlefinger sneered. "You dismissed Lysa Tully on grounds of infertility did you not? But you yourself have never had much success at fathering children, not even with Lady Janyce. That is, until sweet Robyn was born, who is quite hale and has been noted by many to have nothing of the Arryn look."

"What are you saying, Lord Baelish?"

"Just that this council of yours may decide more than matters of doctrine. Very well, my Lord, I shall continue to serve you faithfully as I always have, but think upon my offer, and the ways in which a faithful servant may be useful to you in the uncertain days to come." Littlefinger turned and walked back into the castle, leaving Lord Arryn with a deep feeling of unease.

* * *

A/N: There were a few things that weren't explicit in this post that in retrospect I'd like to make more plain. After setting aside Lysa on grounds of infertility (and because he thought a bride from the Vale would help cement his somewhat shaky hold on the region), Jon Arryn married Janyce Hunter, who though we do not know how she is related to the House Hunter in cannon I'll say she's Lord Eon's daughter.

Also, for those who are wondering, Septon Janos' theology is a mix of Arianism with some of the moral preaching of reform-minded Medieval clerics who would often preach against corruption and hypocrisy in the nobility but blame it on marginalized groups like the Jews. He essentially holds that the Father alone is the One True God, who created the universe 'through' the other members of the Seven, who were the 'firstborn of all creation' and know the Father's will more perfectly than any mortal ever could. However, since the other six were the Father's chosen vessels he has also decreed that on the matters over which he has given them dominion that people turn to them for intercession, making praying to them acceptable.

This is a truth he believes is in the Seven Pointed Star and was revealed to the Andals, but corrupted by their contact with the First Men and later by the 'Valyrian sorcery' of House Targaryen. The Valemen, descended from the oldest and purest line of Andal nobility, are the ones who have best preserved the proper understanding of the sacred texts. This has also led him to a dislike of the merchants and other members of Gulltown society, believing the traditional feudal structure under which pious and pure-blooded Andals rule to be superior. Much like Arius, a lot of Septon Janos' ideas were floating around in the Vale without causing too much trouble until he tried to centralize them into a (somewhat) more coherent body of doctrine, called by his followers "The True Faith" or "The Faith of the Andals/Our Fathers," and called "The Faith of the Father" by its detractors, whose complaints are much like what Lord Grafton said.

It's both the fact that Jon Arryn set Lysa aside (much to Cat's dismay and later horror at her fate) and the fact that Jon allowed Septon Janos to go about First Men bashing that has led to the falling out between the North and the Vale. Both Ned and Cat feel betrayed by Jon Arryn, and even though Ned is starting to think it may have been a good idea he still resents Jon for convincing him to make peace with Rhaegar.


	11. XI Sansa

**Sansa**

"Sansa, sweetling, we need to talk." Sansa gathered her needlework and curtsied politely to Septa Mordane to excuse herself before exiting the room. She could feel her little sister's jealous glare as she left. Arya was utterly hopeless. It was obvious to everyone that hers was the worst needlework, yet she did everything in her power to avoid learning from Septa Mordane, sneaking away when Sansa and Jeyne Poole managed to win the kindly old woman's attention with a lovely bit of stitching or a beautiful recitation of poetry or song. Didn't she realize that she would never be able to win the heart of a man if she didn't have a lovely token of her favour to give him? As it was Arya was preparing a kerchief for Jaehaerys for when he next visited Winterfell, but a white dire wolf on a white background barely stood out, and once its outline could be traced the creature looked more like a horse. Sansa sighed as she put the thoughts out of her mind and followed her mother into castle's glass gardens. If her mother had called her away from her lessons with Septa Mordane it must surely have been important.

The gardens themselves were one of the wonders of Winterfell, and one of Sansa's favorite places in the entire castle. During a summer snow she would often go there to get out of the cold and to watch the gardeners tend the flowers with the help of Maester Luwin. Without making a show of it, she allowed herself to bask in the warmth of the sun's rays as they filtered through the glass ceiling and breathed in deeply, enjoying the various scents that hung in the air.

"What is that you have there?" Sansa's mother looked at the kerchief Sansa herself was knitting for Jaehaerys with an expression Sansa did not understand. It almost seemed as though she was unhappy with it.

"It's a kerchief for Jaehaerys!" she replied enthusiastically. "For when he comes to visit! He'll have to take his own sigil now that he's a prince, and I thought this one would be just perfect! It's a grey dragon on a white field! Isn't lovely, mother?" Sansa's mother gave a forced nod and pursed her lips before responding.

"Yes, sweetling, I was hoping I could talk to you about your…cousin, and his family." Her mother sounded as if she had some ill tidings, but Sansa couldn't even begin to guess what they might be. But then again, mother had been acting strangely ever since the King arrived and revealed the truth about Jaehaerys. _She should have been happy_ , Sansa thought. Jaehaerys wasn't a bastard like everyone had believed, he was a prince! He was noble like they were! He wasn't born of passion nor did he crave Robb's seat, he would have one of his own! Sansa knew it was going to be lovely, just as every prince's castle was in the songs. It would probably be somewhere warm, like the Crownlands or the Reach. She could visit whenever she liked, especially if Daeron made good on his promises to invite her to the capital. Much like Bran dreamed of being a great swordsman, she had often dreamed of being a princess. Daeron had been so charming, ever since he had left she had thought on how he might make her one.

"Oh mother, I know you and father have had your quarrels with the King, but he and his family were lovely! The Queen was so beautiful and the King was so handsome, and their children were so charming, especially Daeron! And Jaehaerys will make the perfect prince, I know he will! He'll show the capital how chivalrous the North can be and all this talk of war will be over!" Sansa knew it was unladylike to gush on and on about the Targaryens like that, but she couldn't help herself. The Royal Visit had been much less joyful than it should have been, but for the most part it had been just like something out of the songs. Jaehaerys (she had decided to make a point of calling her cousin by his true name, unlike Arya who insisted on being stubborn and calling him Jon) would bring North and South together and fix everything that had gone wrong since the Rebellion. Mother let out a long sigh.

"Once I thought we were safe here, and it was not my wish to burden you with sad stories from the South, not while you were so young at least," she said. "I see now that was a mistake. Sansa, sweetling, what exactly do you believe happened during the Rebellion?" This question caught Sansa off-guard, and she looked away pensively before managing a response.

"The King, he was the prince back then, fell in love with Aunt Lyanna and they ran away together," she started nervously. Sansa stopped when he realized her mother was in shock at that response, but how could she be? There were many who had said that the King had taken Aunt Lyanna by force, but how could that have been if they had been married and Jaehaerys was a prince?

"That may have been true at the start," mother said sternly, "but Rhaegar already had a wife. Do you not think it was wrong of him to take another, especially if she was betrothed to another man?"

"But Robert Baratheon was a brute, wasn't he?" she asked. "I've heard you and father talk about him before. He would have made an awful husband!"

"It's true not all women are as lucky as I have been with your father, but did the King really prove any better?" mother asked. "For all his faults, Robert Baratheon loved Lyanna. He could have given her a good home and a long life with many children. Instead, your aunt died in childbirth, alone and afraid. When your father found her he said there wasn't even a midwife present to assist in the birthing." Sansa gasped in horror at this. King Rhaegar had seemed so noble. How could he allow that to happen?

"How do you think your grandfathers died, Sansa?" Sansa couldn't bear to look at her mother. There was something hard in her gaze that demanded an answer. Sansa couldn't help but feel like she had failed her mother.

"Grandfather Rickard was killed by the Mad King. Grandfather Hoster died in battle."

"He died defending his keep," mother said, her voice full of emotion. "He died at the hands of Tywin Lannister's pet monster, Gregor Clegane. Sansa, the Targaryens and the Lannisters are the reasons we have no friends in the south! They're the reason you never got to know your grandparents or your cousins or your uncles! They're the reason my family lost everything!" Sansa could see her mother's eyes were welling up with tears, and she wanted to join her. She had learned from her studies with Maester Luwin and Septa Mordane that House Tully had once ruled the entire Riverlands, but that House Darry now held that honor and a Frey sat in their ancestral seat. She had been told never to speak of it to mother, and Sansa had done as she was asked. It wasn't until that moment that she realized how terrible such a loss must truly have been. The South seemed so far away, the Rebellion seemed so long ago, and mother had always seemed happy in Winterfell. Now Sansa found herself on the verge of crying as well. She had just wanted to be a good daughter, and a good lady. She never wanted to hurt anyone, especially not her mother.

"I'm sorry, mother," she said weakly. "I didn't know. I just wanted to be good and make things better." Tears rolled down Sansa's cheeks as her mother turned to her, her face full of a misery and anger and even some fear. Before she spoke, her mother calmed herself.

"It's not your fault, sweetling. You couldn't have understood. But you can't afford to be innocent now, not with another Targaryen soon to take up residence in Winterfell."

"If they're so awful why is father letting Robb marry the princess?" Sansa asked half in a panic. If the Targaryens were the villains, then father couldn't. He just couldn't.

"He has his reasons, as much as I may disagree with them. But this is precisely why I wanted to speak to you, Sansa. Daenerys' influence here must be limited as much as possible."

"But Robb won't listen to her, will he?" Mother sighed.

"One day Sansa you will learn that a wife can hold great sway over her husband's decisions. However, there is something you can do to make sure the princess does not harm our family. But you'll have to keep it a secret, just between us." Sansa nodded eagerly, begging her mother to go on.

"I have asked some of the Northern lords to send their daughters to Winterfell to serve as ladies-in-waiting to Daenerys. When they arrive, they will no doubt approach you first to learn how they should behave in the castle. They will no doubt have a great many questions. Sansa, I need you to tell me which of them take an interest in your brother and our family more than the princess and hers. We need to surround Daenerys Targaryen with those who are loyal to the Starks and the North, so that she understands that she is to be one of us and cannot act as her brother and father have. It's a task I'm sure you'll enjoy Sansa. Haven't you always wished there were more highborn girls your age here at Winterfell?"

"Yes, mother," Sansa answered. She was already looking forward to her new charge, and there was no question in her mind as to its importance. Sansa could make new friends and help her family all at the same time, in a manner truly fitting for a lady.

"So you'll do it, then?"

"Of course, mother!"

"But remember, sweetling, you must keep this a secret between us. If you tell anyone else, anyone at all, word may reach the girls and they may begin to act differently around you. That would ruin everything, wouldn't it?"

"Yes, mother," Sansa whispered conspiratorially. "I promise I'll keep it a secret. I won't even tell father, I swear!"

"Thank you, sweetling,"mother said warmly. "It's moments like these when I know you'll be a great lady. Now return to your lessons. We can't have you setting a bad example for the other girls, can we?" Sansa got up and thanked her mother before heading out of the glass gardens, beaming at the compliment.


	12. XII Jaehaerys

**Jaehaerys**

The Prince of Dragonstone hadn't expected the elbow to the gut. Aegon had swung his sword down at Jon, who had only just managed to block in time before knocking the wind out of his half-brother. With Aegon off-guard, Jon swept low with his practice sword, sending Aegon's ankles into the air and his back onto the ground. Jon quickly placed a foot on Aegon's chest and a sword at his throat.

"I yield," chuckled the Crown Prince as Jon helped him back up to his feet. Jon was glad his new half-brother enjoyed sparring as much as he did, although his style of fighting was far more formalized than what Jon was used to facing in Robb. This had been their first session, and given the smile on the Crown Prince's face Jon doubted it would be the last. It had been said that Prince Aegon was an excellent swordsman, trained by his great-uncle Prince Lewyn the Huntsman himself. While Jon found his half-brother to be a worthy adversary, he was not so skilled as to make Jon feel hopelessly outclassed. The rumor in the North had always been that Prince Lewyn had used a poisoned blade when he fought Robert Baratheon at the Trident, so perhaps his tutelage did not count for as much as the Southrons believed. Still, Prince Aegon was good enough that Jon did not expect to win every match, or even the vast majority of them. But he had managed to win this one, and his friends seemed to be pleased.

Ser Barristan, the knight of the Kingsguard charged with watching over the bout (and as a Stormlander, the least offensive option, Jon was beginning to realize), smiled at the two princes without showing any favoritism. Domeric clapped politely as Eddard Karstark and the Smalljon let out a boisterous laugh. When Jon looked to Jorah he saw the Lord of Bear Island nod approvingly as well. A look to Ghost was all the dire wolf needed to be assured his master had never been in any danger during the fight. Jonnel Fenn was the hardest to read. The crannogman appeared to be examining everything carefully, taking note more of the courtyard itself than the training bout taking place within it. When he felt Jon's gaze upon him he returned it with a warm smile, one that spoke to the sincerity of his devotion to Jon. 'The Fellowship of the North,' as they were somewhat jokingly called, was rarely apart from Jon, and for that he was grateful. King's Landing was teeming with people, enough to make Winter Town look like a hamlet, but Jon couldn't help but feel isolated even here. Surrounded by so many strange new people with their strange new customs, he had not expected to have many friends at court. But nor had he expected the hostility that could be hidden even in the most polite conversation. While some had followed the lead of Prince Aegon and the King in welcoming Jon to the capital, a great many would find some excuse not to speak with him and to whisper amongst one another whenever he passed by with Ghost. Whether that meant they were devoted to the Lannisters or to his half-sister Rhaenys Jon did not know, though he wouldn't be surprised if there were even more factions with a reason to despise him. The High Septon had spoken to him about his duty as a prince to protect the Faith, and had seemed more than a bit upset when Jon had told him with all the tact he could manage that he wasn't going to convert.

"That wasn't very sporting, you know." Aegon chided him. "I thought you Northmen were supposed to be honorable."

"Lord Stark always said the only honor in combat comes from returning home in one piece after defeating your enemies," Jon replied. "He taught me to win battles, not tourneys, Your Grace."

"For the last time, Jae, you can dispense with the formalities." Jon's half-brother admonished him playfully. "Just call me Egg. The rest of the family does." Jon nodded seriously.

"Alright, Egg." Aegon smiled warmly at this.

"For all your talk of winning battles, I hope you realize that move wouldn't have knocked the wind out of a man in plate," he added.

"No, but it still would have knocked him off balance, and that's all I really needed." Now it was Jon's turn to smirk.

"You should listen to your brother, my son. Jaehaerys speaks wisely of combat." All turned to see King Rhaegar enter the courtyard, shadowed by Ser Arron Qorgyle of the Kingsguard, whose dark Dornish eyes narrowed at the sight of Jon and the Northmen. Perched regally on the King's arm was a magnificent hawk, with golden-brown feathers that caught the light of the morning sun. Jon, his half-brother, their respective retinues bowed before being bid to stand up straight again.

"I had thought the two of you might enjoy hunting today." The King went on. "The skies are clear over the Kingswood, and it does seem a lovely day for falconry."

"Will Daeron be joining us as well, father?" Aegon asked.

"Daeron has been invited, yes." At his Jon turned to Ghost and shook his head. The wolf may not have understood what was being said, but of late Jon had been growing even closer to the wolf, so much so that a simple glance was all that was needed to convey both the wolf's excitement at the prospect of hunting down game and the heavy heart of the boy who had to refuse him. Ghost lowered his head and rested it upon his paws in a gesture only Jon would recognize as despondent. Daeron coming meant he would not be allowed to join them.

"But it is because he and I have much to discuss," Rhaegar told them. "The two of you will be free to go out on your own. With the protection of the Kingsguard, of course." As Jon's face lit up, the King turned toward him, seemingly reading his thoughts.

"Yes, Jaehaerys, I would have your wolf accompany us. It is a wild animal; it cannot remain caged its entire life." Jon noticed out of the corner of his eye that Lord Fenn was regarding the King much more warily, as if something he said had piqued his interest.

"He is a magnificent bird, is he not, Jaehaerys? Aegon and Daeron already have ones just like him. If you wish, he shall be yours once this hunt is through. His name is Enrig." There was something in the King's utterance of that name that caused Ghost to prick up his ears. Jonnel Fenn arched an eyebrow, betraying a curiosity that was stronger than simple intrigue. Jon was unsure of why, but he felt something stir up within him as well.

"What an odd name for a falcon, father," Aegon commented. "I would have thought he would have been named for one of the old family dragons like Balerion or Vhagar."

"But a fitting name nonetheless," interjected the normally silent Jonnel Fenn. "Some of the tongue of the First Men remains spoken in the Neck, and in that language Enrig translates to something like 'King of the Birds.' I did not realize Your Grace was a student of such things."

"I am King of the First Men as well as the Andals and the Rhoynar," Rhaegar responded. "How could I hope to rule over them if I did not know something of their history, my lord of…?"

"Fenn, Your Grace. Jonnel Fenn." The King arched an eyebrow at this. Now it was he who regarded the crannogman with more than simple curiosity.

"Well I am glad for your speaking up, my lord of Fenn," the King said courteously. "It is not often I meet a man learned in such things. It is good that my son has you accompany him."

"I thank you, Your Grace. But if I may be so bold, the Prince is already tasked with the responsibility of caring for his wolf, and I would not wish to see him needlessly burdened with a hawk as well. I would like to offer my services as the bird's caretaker, until Prince Jaehaerys finds himself willing and ready for such a task." Rhaegar pursed his lips in frustration before responding, his nostrils flaring slightly.

"I would not expect a crannogman to know much of falconry." There was a note of hostility in the King's tone that Jon did not like.

"We often use them for hunting, much as other men do, Your Grace," Lord Fenn explained. "When the time is right, I would be more than happy to show the Prince all that I know of such things."

"Jae, tell your man he makes too much of a simple gift," Aegon cut in. "I have servants to look after Balerion, but the bird still knows its master. Just accept father's gift and let Fenn see to the details if he really has a mind to."

"That seems fair," Jon admitted. "I thank you, Your Grace. He is a magnificent bird. I promise Enrig shall want for nothing." Rhaegar smiled as Jon held out his forearm and allowed the bird to hop onto it. Wicked talons curled into the padding he wore for the practice bout, their tips just barely grazing the skin underneath. Enrig looked at Jon in defiance as he took hold of the rope tied to the bird's feet, as if he were daring Jon to command him. Jon met his gaze, refusing to shy away from the bird. He was proud, that much was certain. Jon could tell by how tightly Enrig held his wings to his body that he wanted nothing more than to spread them wide and launch himself into the air. That, and he resented Jon for keeping him on the ground.

"Soon," Jon whispered, feeling his will struggle with that of the falcon. "You'll get to fly soon, I promise." Enrig's grip on his arm loosened and the hawk cocked its head a bit to the right as it appraised Jon with less hostility. As the tension between the bird and the boy began to ease Jonnel Fenn quickly came and took possession of Enrig. The King smiled.

"Jae isn't too bad with a sword, father," Aegon quipped. "His technique isn't all that refined, but he certainly has some of that Northern ferocity I've heard so much about. He actually managed to win our first bout."

"Is that so?" asked the King.

"I think a demonstration would be in order, Your Grace," came the voice of Arron Qorgyle from behind the King. "Surely your two sons would leap at the chance to prove their valor to their father? Personally, Your Grace, I'd be interested to see that 'Northern ferocity' in a fight. They've certainly proven themselves ferocious in situations that call for better manners."

"I would think a knight of the Kingsguard would know better than to insult the family of a prince of the blood, Ser Arron," Jorah shot back. Ser Barristan narrowed his eyes at Ser Arron, who seemed to pay no attention to the older knight. "Imagine if I were to say a Dornishman has no hope against a man of the North in a fair fight. Surely you would demand an apology on behalf of Prince Aegon?" Aegon himself chuckled at this.

"Save your blustering for one more easily intimidated, Northman," Qorgyle sneered. "We both know I'm the better swordsman."

"This is Valyrian steel at my side, boy. You can talk all you want about who's the better swordsman. All I need is an opening."

"I don't think any of that will be necessary," Aegon interrupted before picking up his practice sword. "But I'm game for another quick sparring match if you are, Jae. Though I should warn, you, I won't hold back this time." Jon picked up his own practice sword before smiling back at Aegon, taking up a defensive stance. The corners of the King's lips turned upward, almost into a smile.

"Do your worst, Egg." Jon wasn't ready for Aegon's worst.

The Prince of Dragonstone charged him with a speed Jon hadn't expected, feinting to his right before striking downward in one fluid motion. Jon had just enough time to raise his sword to block the blow, but before he could come to grips with Aegon he was already swiping at Jon's legs. Jon hopped back, already finding it hard to keep up. It became clear to Jon that Aegon had just been sizing him up in their first bout, testing the limits of his skill. Now such pretense had been abandoned. The Prince of Dragonstone held nothing back as he drove Jon around the practice yard. Jon didn't have time to look, but he imagined Ser Arron was smirking. Despite being on the defensive though, Jon was still able to hold his own. His parries might have been a bit sloppy, but they were still able to keep Aegon at bay. _I just need an opening_ , he thought.

He wouldn't get one.

Jon and Aegon crossed blades again. But this time, instead of pulling back and striking from a different angle, Aegon drove forward, causing him to lose his footing. Before Jon knew what was happening he had spun around and had his back exposed to Aegon. Ghost raised his head in alarm. Jon closed his eyes as he waited for the blow to come. But when he did he saw something. From a distance, and in the distorted colors of his wolf-dreams, he saw his own back as well as that of his half-brother. Aegon was going to swing low, to take his legs out from under him. Jon leapt and spun as he felt the _whoosh_ of his half-brother's sword beneath him. He swung his blade down on a surprised Aegon who only just managed to bring his sword back up to block it in time. Jon could feel the tide of the bout turning in his favor. Then he took an elbow to the gut.

It wasn't enough to knock the wind out of him, but it did cause him to lose his balance, and that was all Aegon needed. After an elegant sweeping motion from the Prince of Dragonstone, Jon found himself disarmed, though thankfully still on his feet.

"Do you yield?" Aegon asked, pointing the tip of his blade at Jon. Despite the fact that Aegon had been dominant for the entire bout, it was still plain that the Prince of Dragonstone had been worn out by the exercise. If it were Robb he were facing Jon might have taken a chance and lunged at him, throwing him to the ground and grappling with him there. But against an opponent of Aegon's skill he doubted he would be able to get close enough.

"Aye," Jon said, a smile on his face. "I yield."

"Just as I said, father," Aegon pronounced. "Not terribly refined, but gods does he have good instincts. Tell me, Jae, how did you know where I was going to swing when you had your back turned?"

"I suppose I just saw it coming," Jon offered weakly as he felt the King's gaze upon him. The King looked at Jon with mixture of intrigue and something else that Jon couldn't place. He hoped it was pride, but that didn't seem quite right. Rather, Rhaegar looked a bit excited about the match for some reason. _Perhaps he's glad his sons are both capable swordsmen_ , Jon thought.

"Well done, the both of you," Rhaegar congratulated them. "Now go and prepare yourselves for the hunt. It is already nearly midday and I would not have you dawdle." Aegon bowed to his father before turning back to Jon.

"See you at the front gates, Jae. If you can hunt anything like you can fight, I'm sure you'll have quite a tale for Lady Margaery when next you see her." Jon blushed at this. He hoped he would make better conversation with Margaery than he did when he first met her. Then he had only been able to mouth a few simple words of greeting, and while she had smiled sweetly at him, he doubted she had been impressed. What's worse, she had even been somewhat frightened of Ghost, but that was to be expected. Jon resolved to ask Egg's advice on how to talk with women in general and the Lady Margaery in particular. If Lord Tyrell consented to the match, he would hate to pass the years saying naught but hello and goodbye to the mother of his children.

As Aegon and the King headed out of the courtyard, followed closely by Ser Arron, Jon's fellowship approached him. Ghost slipped his massive head underneath Jon's hand so his master could scratch at his ears. _Thank you,_ Jon thought while staring down at the wolf. _I don't know how you did it, but thank you._

"Your instincts may be good, Your Grace, but you could stand to work on your swordplay a bit if you want to be a match for Prince Aegon," Jorah admitted once all the Southrons but Ser Barristan were away. "I can show you a few pointers, if you'd like."

"And I as well," added Ser Barristan. Jon's fellowship looked at him curiously. "You may need to know how to fight a man of the South someday." The rest nodded in agreement.

"Your Grace, a word if I may," Jon turned and saw Jonnel Fenn staring at him gravely. Enrig sat perched upon his arm, also eying Jon seriously. The crannogman pulled him aside and asked in a low voice.

"Tell it true, Your Grace. You really did _see_ the prince's attack, didn't you?" Jon was surprised by the question, and struggled to think of a good response.

"It was a figure of speech, Lord Fenn, nothing more. I was merely lucky, that's all."

"Through whose eyes, Your Grace?" Fenn pushed on. "The wolf's or the hawk's?" Jonnel's expression seemed to be one of deep concern, as if much depended upon Jon's answer to the strange question. Somehow, the crannogman knew the truth. His deep green eyes seemed to swallow Jon like the marshes from which they came, leaving him with no room to escape as they demanded the truth.

"Ghost's," Jon half-stammered in response, keeping his voice quiet as well. The crannogman's hard expression melted into one of relief.

"That is good to hear, Your Grace," he said. Sensing Jon's confusion, he went on to explain, "Long ago, seeing through the eyes of beasts was not uncommon among the First Men, and to this day it is not forgotten in the Neck. I suspected you might have the gift when I saw the way you and your wolf behaved at Moat Cailin. Wolves are hard beasts to bond with, and dire wolves more so." Jon looked back to the rest of the Northmen as he saw they were regarding them with confusion.

"You can go on ahead," he urged them. "Lord Fenn and I have a few more things we must discuss." As the rest of them filed out of the courtyard Jon turned back to Jonnel.

"Is that why you tried to take Enrig?"

"Yes, Your Grace. Ghost is not the only creature with which you could form this bond. One day you could look through Enrig's eyes as well, and do much more besides. But you are not ready, Your Grace. When men with little experience skin-changing bond with a bird they can lose themselves among the clouds and forget the things of this earth. You are better off spending more time with the wolf. My prince, you must learn to walk before you can fly."

"What must I do?" Jon asked. Truth be told, he was frightened of what he was hearing, and of what having this power might mean for him. But he could not deny the truth of Jonnel's words. His wolf-dreams had always felt like more than mere dreams. His bond with Ghost was different somehow, even from what Farlan the kennelmaster had with Winterfell's hounds. He knew he had to learn how to control it. Otherwise, he worried it might one day control him.

"At night you dream of being your wolf, do you not?" Jonnel asked. Jon nodded. "On the hunt you must learn to see through his eyes, not when it overcomes you but when you wish to do so. But you must remember where the beast ends and you begin. It is less likely that you will lose yourself in the wolf but it is still possible. Your Grace, you must never forget who you are."

 _But who am I?_ Jon asked himself. He had gone from being a bastard to a prince to a skin-changer all in a matter of months. It was a question he knew he needed to find the answer to. Surrounded by Southrons he did not trust, cut off from the family he had known all his life, expected to behave as a member of one he had never known, and now told he would have to master a deadly new power, he realized his life may even depend on it.


	13. XIII Theon

**Theon**

Of course it had to be raining. For all the talk of the beauty of Lys the Lovely, Theon found the weather put a very literal damper on things. It was overcast, it was surprisingly cold, and those people not desperate to sell them something seemed only interested in getting inside. Even the various pillow houses were not as inviting as they otherwise would have been. Instead of standing outside and basking in the sun, inviting clients in with an alluring glance and a coquettish smile, the city's bed slaves had all seemingly retired to their respective establishments, only to be seen as dancing silhouettes through the fine curtains of the city's many brothels. In a way however, this served to heighten their appeal, promising warmth and letting Theon's imagination fill in the details.

"There will be time for that, my boy," Gerion chuckled when he saw whither Theon's gaze had wandered. "But as a reward for a job well done, not as a distraction before it is completed." Theon blushed, but the bastard of Driftmark rolled his eyes at this.

"And you wonder why I have chosen to seek out my own accommodations." Aurane Waters smirked.

"How marvelous the Free Cities must be for you, Waters," Theon mused. "So many people with the look of Old Valyria, but without the slightest hope of holding land or titles." Aurane narrowed his eyes at this, though trading insults was hardly uncommon between the two of them. They shared a glare to which each had become accustomed during their years growing up in the demesne of House Velaryon.

"It's never wise to insult the captain of the ship on which you've booked passage, boy," Waters replied darkly, " _The Merling King's Boon_ may leave for Westeros without you."

"If you leave without completing our mission, you'll prove your bastard blood to be as craven as Lord Monford says." Aurane's snarled at the mention of his trueborn brother, but Gerion was quick to intervene.

"Come now, Theon. Aurane is a valued member of this expedition, just as you are," he chided. "I would be loath to hire sellsails here in Lys. I could certainly do it, mind you, but it is an unnecessary and avoidable expense."

"House Lannister counts its coins as always," muttered Aurane.

"Stay with us after our business is concluded and you may say otherwise." Gerion answered with a laugh. "I happen to have an account open in one of Tregar Ormollen's finer establishments."

"Well, vengeance and whoring do have a certain appeal to them," Aurane chuckled.

"Vengeance? That's why you're here?" Theon asked incredulously. "You hated your father. Surely you celebrated when the Knight of the Stepstones killed him."

"Ah, but in so doing he put my brother on the Driftwood Throne," Aurane reminded him. "And for that I would see him hanged." Theon scoffed at the insistence of even House Velaryon's bastards on identifying with a half-remembered gift from the Drowned God lost centuries ago. A glare from Aurane was returned by Theon, who wouldn't bother reminding him that despite his father's foolishness, the Seastone Chair of Pyke was still there, and still his for the taking.

"Well, it seems we've arrived," The Lannister declared as the three of them stopped at the inn where Gerion had arranged rooms for them. By Westerosi standards it had the look of luxury, but was positively drab in comparison to some of the brothels that they had seen on the streets of Lys.

"Last chance, Aurane," Gerion said.

"I thank you for your offer, Lord Lannister, but I think I will go my own way. I'll see you both at the appointed time." The bastard of Driftmark tipped his cap and continued walking, leaving the other two to settle into their new accommodations.

A little while later Theon found himself by the fire in the rooms Gerion had managed to procure for them, finally in some dry clothes that he was sure would only be soaked again as soon as he stepped back out into the rain. He shared a glass of wine with Gerion as the two reminisced about the occasional visits House Velaryon would pay to King's Landing and Gerion's trips to Driftmark to "take in the sea air" as he put it. They talked about some of the misadventures that they had gotten into with some of the serving girls and made a few japes at Lord Monford's expense. Theon was about to pour himself a second glass of wine, but Gerion discouraged him.

"Have to keep your wits sharp, my boy." He said.

"I suppose you're right." Theon replied as he placed the bottle back down on the table. He would never admit it to Gerion, but despite everything that House Lannister had done to his family, he had developed a special bond with him thanks to the time he spent in the capital learning to be a proper lord. At Driftmark Old Lord Velaryon had always treated him as the hostage he was, in King's Landing the Hand had shown him nothing but contempt, and the King naught but distance. Perhaps Theon should have hated Gerion too. He was, after all, a Lannister. But the fact remained that that particular Lannister had been one of the few bright spots in his childhood. Theon could see why the Imp had called him his favorite uncle. When the time was right, when they had completed their mission and Theon had proved to his fellow ironmen that he was worthy of his birthright, he would thank Gerion for all he had done for him. After what seemed like too little time there was a knock at the door and Aurane entered, his clothes dripping.

"It's time we went and spoke to our friend," Gerion smiled warmly, clearly excited to continue on the mission. "Are you ready?"

"Yes, Lord Gerion," Theon replied. "But if I'm to learn how to negotiate I must insist you let me take the lead. I'm not a child anymore." Waters scoffed.

"I know that, Theon," Gerion's smile changed to one of reassurance. He pushed a strand of his golden hair out of his face and placed his hand on Theon's shoulder. "And I fully intend to do so. I'll only step in if I think we're losing him. But truth be told, I'm not too worried about it. I doubt even _that_ old pirate has never been snared by a kraken before." They shared a laugh as Theon pulled his cloak over his shoulders, even Aurane. Together they made their way quietly through the streets of the city, followed by a retinue just large enough to ensure that they would be recognized as men of quality, not to be harassed by some desperate thief or whore. When they came to the establishment they were seeking they found a few guards posted at the door. Standing beneath a canopy, they seemed utterly unfazed by the weather, even though the wind blew through. A few silver stags at the door were enough to gain them entrance. As soon as they stepped into the tavern Theon spotted the man they wanted. He confidently strode over to the long table at which he sat, deciding to make a strong opening move.

"Tell me where he is." Theon slammed his hands down onto the table and glared at the Lyseni pirate, while Salladhor Saan flashed him a toothy grin and did his best to suppress a chuckle. Saan's guards made to draw their weapons before he bade them put them away with a wave of his hand. Theon felt the reassuring grip of Gerion on his shoulder. He turned and saw that the older man was giving him a stern look, his hard green eyes a reminder of the conversations they had had on their way to Lys. This was supposed to be a mission of diplomacy. The kind of thing Theon would have to improve upon for when he inherited the Iron Islands. He couldn't force Salladhor Saan to give up the location of one of his closest associates. Not in Lys, not when the pirate was surrounded by allies and guards in a tavern he himself owned.

"You'll have to explain who this 'he' is, boy," the self-styled Prince of the Narrow Sea replied wryly. "Ah, is that the Kraken of Greyjoy upon your breast, little lord? Perhaps you seek news of your uncle. Alas, he disappeared into the Jade Sea, as have many before him. There are legends of a one-eyed captain with a ship of mutes, but they are scarcely to be believed. Like a true kraken he no doubt lies at the bottom of the sea." Theon's fists clenched upon the fraying wood of the table. Gerion's grip on his shoulder tightened. Theon knew Saan was trying to get a rise out of him, and given the obnoxious way in which the pirate carried himself he knew it would be hard to resist. Salladhor Saan was in every way absurd and ostentatious. Tonight, he was dressed in a flashing cloth-of-silver, with sharp, jagged sleeves that seemed so long they no doubt reached the floor. A bright red satin atop his head sported several feathers of different lengths and hues. He wore as many rings as he had fingers, each inset with precious stones. A strange bird, as colorful as its master, squawked on his shoulder.

"We want the Knight of the Stepstones," Theon answered. "The pirate lord Davos." Saan put his goblet to his lips and took a sip before placing it back on the table, moving the wine about in his mouth and mulling over its taste before finally swallowing.

"What makes you think I would do such a thing?" He mused. "I am not aware of all your lordly customs, but I am Prince of the Narrow Sea, and in Westeros it is said a prince should not betray his knights, is it not?"

"My prince," Gerion cut in, "we admire your willingness to protect those near to you, but we are here on business." Saan chuckled at this.

"Never let it be said there is no honor among thieves," he rejoined. Gerion looked down at the table and back at Saan, wordlessly asking permission to sit. Saan nodded and Gerion slung himself into one of the seats, beckoning for Theon and Aurane to do the same. Gerion then pulled out his coin purse and withdrew a few gold dragons from it, dropping them slowly and deliberately onto the table. Saan's eyes followed them with a look that grew more and more ravenous with every _clink_ of gold on gold.

"I suppose introductions are in order," the Lannister went on. "I am Gerion of House Lannister and these are my associates Theon of House Greyjoy and Aurane Waters, natural son of the late Lord Velaryon. Tell me, my prince, what sort of wine would this buy me in an establishment as fine as this one?" Saan considered the coins for a moment before answering.

"A cheap Pentoshi blend," he replied. "I'm sure a man as well traveled as yourself Lord Lannister knows how expensive this city can be."

"No matter," Gerion said, withdrawing several more dragons and again dropping them slowly on the table. "Plenty more where that came from. After all, I am interested in the best Lys has to offer." Theon couldn't believe how easy Gerion was making it look. Saan had rebuffed him almost immediately, but now the pirate looked genuinely intrigued.

"Then you have found the right man," Saan told him.

"Please, Lord Gerion, your generosity is unnecessary," Theon found himself saying. "I shall buy the wine. After all, it is my hope that the prince and I become better acquainted. There is much we could do for each other when I become Lord Reaper of Pyke."

"Oh? And what would those things be?" Saan asked caustically.

"When I am Lord of the Iron Islands—"

"Bah! I spit on your Iron Islands! Pirates with nothing to trade but rocks and salt!" Theon was about to rise to his feet before Gerion stopped him. Aurane smirked.

"Gentlemen," the Lannister interjected, trying to calm the situation. "We can talk of future business at a future time. Let us now focus on the matter at hand."

"Ah, yes," Saan tugged at his beard as if trying to remember something. "You were asking me to betray my associate, though for what reason I cannot recall."

"We would never ask you to _betray_ Ser Davos," said Theon. Saan gave him a dismissive look, but he pressed on, "just to consider a different business arrangement. One that would ensure your good standing in Lys."

"You insult me in my own tavern? The Saan family has ever been one of the most influential in Lys, boy," Salladhor spat.

"And His Grace King Rhaegar would see that influence grow," Gerion added. "He would even take steps to aid you in that regard." Gerion withdrew a piece of rolled parchment from his cloak and placed it on the table.

"My prince," Theon said, the title leaving a foul taste in his mouth. "You are speaking to men who understand that what some call piracy is nothing more than diplomacy and commerce conducted by other means. It's why my people call it 'paying the iron price.'" This wasn't exactly the reason, but Theon didn't expect Saan to know that. One of the things Gerion had told him was that it may prove important to be flexible with the truth in order to hold the pirate's interest.

"Perhaps I have misjudged you, boy," Saan replied. "Tell me, what else do you understand about this iron price?"

"Only that the good people of Lys are no doubt tired of paying it. In exchange for helping His Grace in this small matter, the King would be willing to let you present a treaty to the magisters of Lys. It reduces the tariffs on several Lysene goods, and lifts the ban on tapestries and wines imported from your fair city." At this, Gerion removed a roll of parchment from his cloak and set it down on the table. Saan eyed it hungrily.

"I would be much loved for such a thing, it is true," Saan admitted, "but in Lys we sell love on every corner. And the fact that I make use of your 'other means' has allowed me to profit from these tariffs of yours. So tell me, little lord, where is the benefit for Salladhor Saan?"

"We can't just trust anyone to deliver these goods to the King's markets, my prince," Gerion said. "And the…clandestine nature of your enterprise has always meant that you were only able to trade with certain people and at certain places. That need not be the case. Lord Darry of the Riverlands has generously offered to reduce his own tolls along the Trident."

"Why be forced to unload your goods at the mouth of the river when you could take them as far as Fairmarket without ever seeing an exciseman?" asked Aurane. Saan stroked his beard at this, despite probably having not the slightest idea where Fairmarket was, and took another sip of wine before setting it back down on the table decisively.

"All this for the head of a sellsail? I would be a fool not to accept, but I must ask, why?"

"Ser Davos is more than a sellsail, unfortunately," Theon commented, happy to see his interjection did not earn him a glare from the pirate this time. "He does not simply prey upon our vessels, he does so in the name of Stannis Baratheon."Saan laughed at this.

"Ah yes, the good Ser Knight and the dead king he serves. I hope this offer of yours means I may speak as if I am among friends…but regardless I think I shall speak as if you are surrounded by my guards. I have been with Ser Davos when he has taken a Westerosi ship. It is an interesting sight indeed. He presents his captives with your holy book and demands they swear upon it to fight for King Stannis' peace, lest they meet the king's justice instead."

"A true man of mercy," Aurane sneered.

"Not to Reachmen," said Gerion.

"Why do you consort with such a madman?" Theon asked. Gerion grimaced at his lack of tact and the old pirate whirled upon him once more, though the anger in his eyes had been tempered by the offer that now lay on the table.

"Because, little lord, that madman and I have had a long and profitable relationship. And he was not always so. He was promised much by his King Stannis, but your King Rhaegar took all he had instead. There is a saying in Lys I like to remember in all my business dealings: Better men have done worse things, and for worse reasons." Gerion slid the rolled parchment in Saan's direction, drawing him back to the business at hand.

"You will find him in Volantis, on the western bank of the city in an inn called the Poor Man's Hathay. His business there means he will not leave until the next moon. Now I must be preparing to deliver my speech to the magisters, so if I may …" Salladhor reached for the parchment but Gerion withdrew it quickly, now giving the Lysene a hard, determined look.

"Come now, Salladhor, you're a businessman. When you receive fortuitous news, don't you know it's rude not to tip the courier?"

"Forgive me if I did not realize my Lord of Lannister was in need of gold."

"Not gold, information. You said you have seen Ser Davos mete out his so-called king's justice?"

"I have, at that." Theon was confused now. This had not been part of the plan.

"What weapon does he use when he does so?" Saan flashed a toothy grin at this.

"Ah yes, I knew the coming of a Lannister to inquire about my old friend was no mere chance. You wish to know if he has your sword."

"What does it look like? Is there a lion on the pommel? Can you tell if it is truly Valyrian?" Now it was Theon's turn to place a hand on Gerion's shoulder, but the older man did not so much as acknowledge him. Theon's grip relaxed and he decided he had best just watch the conversation for any signs of further trouble. For once, he and Aurane shared a concerned look.

"It is undoubtedly of Valyrian make," Saan told Gerion, "and its pommel is indeed a lion. Whether it truly is your ancestral blade I do not know. But I would not advise you to seek it, even if you seek the man who wields it. Davos claims to have brought it out of old Valyria, and if he speaks the truth then the Doom hangs over it." Gerion's eyes lit up at this, excited by the mere mention of Valyria. This unnerved Theon greatly. He was not superstitious, but the failure of any man to return from the ruins of that place was not to be taken lightly. Gerion slid the parchment back over to Saan, who snatched it up like a starving animal might some piece of flesh. Gerion rose to leave, bowing politely as he did so.

"We thank you for your hospitality, my prince," the Lannister said formally. Salladhor raised his goblet and took another drink.

"To our new arrangement," he replied. "May you find what you seek." Gerion turned and left with Theon and Aurane Waters in tow.

"Why didn't you tell me this was about Brightroar?" he demanded as the rain whipped around them.

"Because it isn't about Brightroar," Gerion answered somewhat coldly. "We are on a mission from the King. I just happen to have my own motives for being here, just as Aurane does and as you do." This caught Theon off-guard. On their way to Lys, the older man had done nothing but tell him how the whole affair would be good for him, would restore the Greyjoy family name within the Seven Kingdoms, and would give him the experience he needed for when he reclaimed his birthright. It had never occurred to him that Gerion might have had his own designs.

"At least my reasons don't conflict with our charge!" Theon shouted back. He wanted to get out of the rain, but something kept him from it. He couldn't go back with Gerion just yet.

"As much as it pains me to say this," Waters admitted, "the little squid has a point. I want glory and advancement. He wants to restore his family name. Neither of those are things Ser Davos can give us. But you, you want something he has. What if he offers it to you in exchange for letting him go? What if he threatens to throw it into the sea if you do not?" Gerion ground his teeth, his green eyes locked with Aurane's purple ones.

"What would you have me do?" He spat. "Pretend I do not wish to see Brightroar restored to its rightful owners? Not reclaim my family's legacy from some murderous lunatic?"

"I would have you swear an oath," Waters said bitterly. "But I would not expect you to keep it."

"You will not accompany us when we apprehend him," Theon found himself saying. He couldn't believe the words had left his mouth. "You will stay behind and prevent Ser Davos from escaping by sea." Gerion looked at Theon as if he had been slapped. Theon looked to Aurane for support for what felt like the first time in years. Waters nodded.

"No one need know how he was captured," the heir to Pyke went on. "There will be enough glory for all of us. But if you do not swear, here and now, on the honor of your House, that you will do this, then the _Merling King's Boon_ will leave without you."

"Do we have your oath, Lord Gerion?" Waters asked.

"Aye," Gerion said. "You have it."


End file.
